


There's A Long, Long Trail

by Marblez



Series: Downton Abbey AU [1]
Category: Downton Abbey, The Crimson Field
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Language, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slash, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 97,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marblez/pseuds/Marblez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

**Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

**Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter One; France, 1916**

_It’s funny, the things you remember and the things you forget._

_I can remember the smell of my father’s workshop, metal and oil and something I could never quite place but loved none the less. I can remember what it sounds like to be surrounded by a room full of clocks as they chimed on the hour._

_I can remember the feel of his belt as it split the skin of my back._

_But I can’t remember his voice._

_I can remember the things he said to me, all the names he called me but it was always my voice saying the words in my head._

_“…disgusting freak…”_

_“…filthy pervert…”_

_“…abomination in the eyes of God…”_

_My mother’s voice, on the other hand, is something that I have been unable to forget no matter how hard I’ve tried._

_She called me her “darling baby boy” when I was little and “her little angel” as I grew, smothered with loved and attention, spoiled even._

_My sisters always resented that._

_Once she realised what I was the attention she showed me came in the form of “motherly concern” and every other word out of her mouth was a suggestion that she thought would “help me.”_

_“…have you tried not being…um…that way?”_

_“…perhaps if you found a nice girl you’d to stop being…wrong…”_

_I wish, more than anything, I could forget that last thing she said to me._

_It was just before I shipped out._

_I was given “embarkation leave” and told to say goodbye to my family._

_So that’s what I did, or tried to do anyway._

_“Oh. It’s you. I thought it was our Val.”_

_“No, Mother, it’s me. Your son.”_

_“You’re no son of mine.”_

_And then she’d shut the door in my face._

_I told my mates that she’d cried, that she’d begged me not to go, that she’d wished me all the luck in the world._

_Anything but the truth._

_I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like there was something crawling under my skin, my foul secret trying to claw its way out. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t “wrong”, when I didn’t find my own sex to be more appealing that the soft curves of a woman._

_And now, after two long years of war, of mud and blood and death I can’t remember what peace feels like. I can’t remember what it feels like to sleep in a bed, to wake up in the morning feeling safe and warm._

_I can’t remember the taste of strawberries, a favourite of mine since I was a little boy. I can’t remember the smell of fresh bread let alone the taste of it._

_It’s funny, the things you remember and the things you forget._

~ * ~ * ~

In Thomas’s opinion the worst thing about being a stretcher bearer wasn’t the danger of being shot or blown up, it wasn’t the long hours or even the numerous difficulties that could and would be caused by the bulky stretcher they had to use.

No, the worst thing about being a stretcher bearer was the mud.

Sometimes, it if was raining or had recently been raining, the mud was like ice beneath their feet. Their hob-nailed boots would slip and slide, unable to find any sort of purchase in the mud and sending them tumbling more often than not.

Of course the rain often produced another challenge for them when the trenches, dug out of the same mud they struggled through in no-mans-land retained water like a swimming pool, leaving good men standing in water for hours on end, sometimes up to their waists and on one memorable occasion their necks.

Manoeuvring a bulky wooden stretcher through a flooded trench, feet slipping on the mud underneath the water was almost impossible and yet he and his fellow stretcher bearers were expected to succeed.

Sometimes it was worse when it hadn’t been raining for a couple of days.

The water would recede, yes, but it would leave behind something far worse, a mud that was more like a living creature, sucking their boots down into the ground with each and every step that they took. He’d seen too many good men die that way, from stepping on the wrong bit of mud and being sucked down and down and down until there was no sign of them.

And yet they, the stretcher bearers, were still expected to struggle on through the mud ferrying casualties back and forth from no-mans-land to the ambulances waiting to take them to the nearby clearing station.

It was on one such day when the mud was trying to pull the boots from their feet that Thomas found himself face to face with someone from his old like, the life he had led before the war had begun.

He and Peters, the young lad he’d been paired with that day, had been leaning against the wall of the trench smoking a cigarette each, watching as the peacefulness of the early morning descended into the usual chaos, their stretcher that their feet.

“Thomas?”

Glancing up from the latest of Miss O’Brien’s letters he found himself meeting a familiar pair of blue eyes.

“It is Thomas, isn’t it?”

Beside him Peters had adopted the position of attention like he always did when an officer addressed them.

“Corporal Barrow now, Mr Crawley,” Thomas responded, his own posture remaining almost insultingly casual as he somehow managed to muster one of his trademark smirks for the handsome young officer.

The smile he received in response was far more genuine although somewhat wistful as Mr Crawley spoke to him once more,

“You’ll never guess where I’ve just been.”

Thomas felt his insides grow cold.

Mr Crawley smiled at him once more, even going so far as to reach out and pat him on the shoulder before hurrying off after Lieutenant Granger.

“What did he mean by that?” Peters demanded once they were alone.

“Nothing,” Thomas grunted, stuffing his letter into his tunic pocket, his hand trembling more than he would have liked as he pulled out his lighter to rescue his dying cigarette. “It was nothing.”

“But then how did he know who you were?” Peters pressed, his own cigarette forgotten in his quest for information.

Thomas chuckled, breathing smoke out of his lungs.

Peter was worse than some of the maids had been when it came to a piece of gossip.

“I used to work for some of his relations before the war, that’s all,” Thomas answered stiffly, picking a loose bit of tobacco off of his tongue and flicking it away.

Peters looked like he was about to press him for a more detailed answer when the familiar cry for a stretcher bearer punctuated the air.

By the time they had finished ferrying the latest collection of wounded men to the ambulances Peters had, thankfully, forgotten all about his questioning and Thomas was able to keep his memories of life back at Downton to himself.

Lying in his pathetic little foxhole that evening, dug out of the wall of the trench by his own fair hands and covered with an old piece of tarpaulin Thomas read through Miss O’Brien’s letter once more.

It was filled with the sort of information they used to share over a couple of cigarettes after dinner, taking his mind back to a time and a place when he had been happy.

He could remember arriving at Downton for the first time, fifteen years old and desperate to get away from the treatment he suffered at the hands of his parents.

He’d tried making friends at first, had even succeeded when he was just a lowly hall boy but that didn’t last. After a while all they wanted to talk about were girls, be it the glamourous ladies of the house or the giggling collection of house maids and kitchen maids, none of whom interested Thomas in the slightest.

So instead of chasing girls like the rest of them he’d worked to “improve himself” in the eyes of Mr Carson, the butler, until he was granted the elevation of rank to second footman and then, eventually, up to first footman.

He had always tried hard to contain his “unnatural urges” but sometimes that hadn’t been possible, such as with the Duke of Crowborough.

Miss O’Brien had ignored him for a long time until one evening she’d caught him in a rather compromising position with a visiting servant.

He’d imagined the worst.

He’d expected to be thrown from the house in disgrace.

He had never expected her to befriend him, to confide in him that secrets were worth more than all the finest jewels in the world and that she, a woman with secrets of her own, could only trust someone with secrets of their own to keep.

They’d been friends and co-conspirators ever since then, aiding each other in their collection of secrets and protecting each other when needed.

He chuckled sadly, putting the letter away once more and settling down to sleep, his head resting against the unforgiving mud walk behind him.

It all seemed so unimportant now.

~ * ~

**A/N** So this chapter was mostly just to get the situation set up and things will start changing/happening in the next chapter. Let me know what you think. X


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

 

**Chapter Two; France 1916**

_It's funny, the way a single decision can shape the rest of your life._

_There have been many decisions in my life, almost too many to count, but I've found it's usually the littlest ones, the spur of the moment ones, that have the most effect on my life._

_My first kiss with Doris Thatcher when I was fourteen and struggling with my "abnormal" desires, a kiss which instead of "curing me" as if hoped only solidified the attraction I felt towards my own sex._

_My second kiss with Frank Borden, also when I was fourteen and still struggling to understand what I was feeling, which had had the unfortunate side effect of exposing my mother to my predilections._

_Taking the position at Downton Abbey, Yorkshire rather than the one at Hamby Hall, Devonshire._

_Responding to the Duke of Crowborough’s advances when the handsome man had visited the Crawley's in London one summer._

_Holding it against Mr Bates for getting the position that I had wanted despite knowing that the older man was better suited to the job and, having served as his Lordships batman, was also more experimented than a footman who had only acted as valet for visitors._

_Stealing._

_That's quite a big one actually, a collection of little decisions brought about by my need for attention._

_I wanted to get caught, you see._

_But I also didn't want to get caught._

_Holding it against William for being what I considered to be a shining example of everything that was wrong with me, both inside and out._

_For being my complete opposite._

_For being the kind of person I could only dream of being._

_If I ever get out of this mess alive I'll have to try and make it up to him, the things I said and did to him just so that I would feel better about myself even if only for a little while._

_Huh._

_"This mess”, also known as my participation in the war thanks to one o the worst spur of the moment decisions I had ever made._

_It's funny, the way a single decision can shape the rest of your life._   


~*~*~

"Bloody Hell!" Thomas grunted as he struggled to manoeuvre the back end of the stretcher around the tight corner of the trench, stumbling on a loose board beneath his feet. "There must be more to life than this!"

He heard the bomb before it struck, the distinctive whistle warning him of their imminent danger but not giving him enough time to do anything more than react as the explosion rocked the trench, dropping the stretcher and the poor sod it carried as he was knocked off of his feet.

"You all right, Corporal?"

Was he all right?

Mentally cataloguing his body for any new aches or pains he found only a small cut on the back of his hand from his fall, nothing serious.

"I think so," he panted, shaken by the relatively close call as Clifton, his partner for the day, crouched down beside him and helped him to sit up, brushing the dirt from his back and shoulders. "Yeah. I'm all right."

"They won't believe this back home where I come from," Clifton muttered as he rose to his feet, taking out his cigarette case as he watched Thomas lean across to check on the young soldier they'd been carrying between them in an attempt to get him to the clearing station.

He was dead.

Thomas sighed, muttering a soft curse under his breath as he heard Clifton casually light one of his cigarettes with his expensive lighter.

"I thought to myself _Medical Corps, not much danger there,_ " the older stretcher bearer muttered, taking a deep drag of his cigarette before offering it to Thomas. "How wrong can one man be? Here..."

Not even bothering to remove the end of the stretcher from his lap Thomas leaned back against the side of the trench, accepting the cigarette and taking a much needed lungful of the foul tasting smoke.

"I think it comes down to luck," Clifton continued, already lighting a second cigarette for himself, repeating words that Thomas had heard from many men before him. "If a bullet's got your name on it, there's nothing you can do. If not, you thank God you're alive-"

It was like watching a puppet that had had its strings cut.

The instant the bullet struck his helmet, a mixture of blood and brains spurting out into the air, his body went completely limp and crumpled to the ground in an undignified heap as his life fled.

Thomas might have cried out, he couldn't remember, but it would have been drowned out by the continuing explosions even if he had.

This wasn't the first person to die right in front of him since this war had begun and he had a sinking suspicion that it wouldn't be the last.

It was, however, the first time he'd lost someone he considered to be a comrade on arms, if not a friend.

Clifton had been like him.

No, he wasn't an "abomination" but he'd joined the medical corps thinking, just like Thomas, that it would be all hospital work and would keep him away from the fighting.

And just like Thomas he'd been wrong.

And now he was dead.

Thomas couldn't breathe, his lungs refusing to work properly as he struggled to get away from the bodies of his friend and the unnamed soldier they'd been tasked with helping back when this latest bombardment had begun.

"Get these bodies away!"

A hand grabbed hold of his tunic, shaking him sharply as a further order was issued from the handsome young man he had now identified as LT Fraser-Morris.

"Come on Corporal Barrow!"

He would have like to say that he snapped out of his panic and bravely got back to work, his actions inspiring those around him.

That was not the case.

Thomas had gasped and mumbled, pulling himself to his feet and ordering a passing soldier to help him with the stretcher, his voice breaking uncomfortably as he spoke.

He didn't even realise how much he was shaking until the bombardment finally came to an end some hours later and he was able to retreat to the little dugout where he and the other stretcher bearers "relaxed" whilst on duty, hoping to find a cup of tea.

"Sorry, Corporal, we ran out of tea leaves last night," Peters apologised when he suggested a brew, the younger man wiping the sweat from his brow with his hand only to leave behind a dark smudge. "I was going to go on the scrounge today with Clifton but what with the bombardment and everything I haven't had the chance."

"Clifton's dead," Thomas muttered, clenching his hands in an effort to stop them trembling. "Stray bullet."

Peters looked close to tears.

"Look, why don't you try and get your head down for a bit while I go on the scrounge," he surprised himself by offering, a strange feeling of responsibility surfacing in his usually self-centred mind. "I'll probably have more luck than you would have, anyway."

Because while Peters would have asked Thomas would simply take.

"Does Captain Riley know?" Peters asked softly, nodding towards their commanding officer who was currently bandaging some private’s hand. "About Clifton, I mean."

Thomas shrugged.

He had no idea.

To be honest he didn't care.

"I'll tell him," Peters offered, frowning down at Thomas's still trembling hands. "Are you...are you all right?"

"Anyone who claims to be all right in this bloody mess of a war needs their head examining," Thomas muttered as he pulled on his helmet and stepped out of the mini-dugout. "Look, I just need a strong cup of tea and a cigarette and then I'll be fine."

Peters didn't look entirely convinced but Thomas didn't give him the chance to argue any more, hurrying through the labyrinth of trenches until he reached the cookhouse.

Ducking inside he expertly avoided the cooks busy creating whatever questionable delicacy they'd be serving that evening and hurried across to where the "officer’s supplies" were kept, crouching down out of sight before beginning to search through the crates and packages for what he desired.

Eventually he unwrapped a brown paper package and discovered the ultimate jackpot in regards to his desire for a decent cup of tea.

A decorative tin of Souchong tea leaves, some of the most expensive tea leaves currently available even before the war had started, an equally large tin of condensed milk and a packet of sugar cubes.

Stashing each of the precious items in his medical satchel, covering them with bandages and dressings he quickly replaced the package and hurried out of the cookhouse without being seen, all but scurrying back towards the mini-dugout where his fellow stretcher bearers awaited him.

He'd never tasted Souchong tea until that day but he'd recognise the aroma anywhere having served it to the Lords and Ladies at Downton for years but, now that he had, he could understand why they insisted on maintaining a regular order.

Unlike the almost bitter tea that he was used to it had a deep, rich flavour even with the condensed milk that lingered on his taste buds long after he'd emptied his mug.

Day slowly faded away to night and, thankfully, the Germans seemed to have had enough for the day and were content to leave them in peace.

Thomas went about his duties.

He helped the other stretcher bearers remove the last of the men killed during the bombardment, delivering their bodies to the burial details fifty yards behind the line.

He checked up on the men he knew had been wounded during the course of the day but hadn't needed to be removed from combat, refreshing their dressings and warning them about the dangers of infection, advising them to keep their wounds clean and dry as much as possible given their circumstances.

At some point as he was making his way back to his little dugout to get some sleep it began to rain.

He was soaking wet and freezing cold on minutes and so, with a slight course alteration, he headed back to the stretcher bearers dugout and set about brewing himself another cup of tea from their acquired rations.

"You look very comfortable there, Corporal," the familiar voice startled him a few minutes later and he climbed to his feet automatically, offering the young officer a salute.

Matthew Crawley, stood in the rain wearing his officers greatcoat, quickly saluted back even as his eyes strayed longingly to the steaming cup of tea resting on the table which had been constructed out of an old door they'd found.

"Would you like some, sir?" Thomas found himself offering quietly as he returned to his seat. "We've got condensed milk and sugar."

"I won't ask how you managed that," Matthew chuckled by way of answering, stepping into the shelter and removing his helmet as Thomas poured a second cup of tea from the battered looking kettle, adding a decent amount of milk and sugar.

"Go on, sir," he murmured as the officer took a seat posited him, pressing the mug into his hands.

Matthew let out a deep sigh of pleasure after his first sip, pausing briefly to inhale the familiar aroma.

"I definitely won't ask where you got this," he muttered almost to himself before taking mother long sip of the much needed beverage. "That's nectar. You sure you can spare it?"

Thomas chuckled somewhat darkly.

"Gladly," he responded after taking a sip of his own drink. "If we could talk about the old days and forget about all this for a minute or two."

"Do you ever hear from anyone?" Matthew asked softly after nodding his head in silent agreement, his eyes flickering out towards the trench for a moment before returning to study the soldier sitting opposite him, his uniform stained with mud and what appeared to be blood.

"Oh, yes," Thomas responded, patting his pocket where the latest piece of correspondence resided. "Miss O'Brien keeps me informed."

Sometimes he hated the news from home, from his former life Other times, times like this, he relied upon them to act as a distraction.

"Lady Edith's driving," he announced, earning a startled chuckle in response. "Lady Sybil's training as a nurse."

Now that hadn't been much of a surprise, this the youngest of the Crawley sisters was the one getting involved like a normal person.

She always had been the most independent of them, always doing things her own way and actually paying attention to the world around her unlike her sisters.

Yes, it was safe to say that Thomas had always had a soft spot for his favourite Crawley sister.

She was just too kind to everyone, even the servants, for anyone not to instantly take to her and like her.

"Miss O'Brien tells me the hospital's busier than ever with the wounded coming in," he continued softly, suddenly remembering her almost casual suggestion that maybe he could ask for a transfer back to England and wondering, for a moment anyway, if that would actually be possible. "That true?"

"Certainly is," Matthew responded. "They had a concert when I was there to raise extra funds."

"I'm curious, sir," Thomas murmured after a thoughtful pause, deciding that there was no harm in asking if his friends suggestion would even be an option for him to pursue. "Do you think I, or anyone for that matter, could ever get a transfer back to the hospital, seeing as its war work?"

Matthew seemed understandably taken aback but it wasn't the same for him, he'd had six months training and a posting on England before he'd been sent out here earlier this year whereas Thomas and all the other stretcher bearers had barely as six weeks training before they were boarding the ships for France.

"Well, you'd have to be sent home from the front first," the young officer eventually answered. "And then you might have to pull a few strings."

Thomas hummed thoughtfully.

There was only one way to guarantee a ticket home from the front and he didn't particularly fancy going down that route unless he knew for certain he could get away with it having heard the rumours about what happened to men who tried to fake an injury or get caught actually giving themselves an injury in order to get sent home.

He'd have to be pretty certain it would work to risk a firing squad.

"Thank you for that," Matthew murmured sincerely as he knocked back the last of his tea, even savouring the dregs as Thomas had earlier. "Thank you very much."

Thomas couldn't stop himself chuckling somewhat darkly as he accepted the empty mug back.

"What would my mother say?" he murmured. "Me entertaining the future Earl of Grantham for tea."

Matthew smiled down at him as he rose to his feet, replacing his tin helmet on top of his head.

"War has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don't."

Thomas blinked for a long moment, caught up in the simple yet profound words and eventually had to hurry in order to follow the handsome young officer out of the shelter, pulling on his own helmet before offering Matthew an almost perfect salute.

They parted ways with a shared smile, Matthew continuing with his inspection of the trench and his men while Thomas returned to his seat at the table, picking up his lukewarm cup and downing the last of his tea.

Was he really that desperate to go home?

Was he really that much of a coward?

Idly he found himself rubbing at the palm of his right hand with the thumb of his left hand, imagining lacing a lot cigarette between his fingers and lifting it up over the top of the trench so that a German sniper would see the glowing embers and fire, permanently damaging his dominant hand.

Could he really do something like that?

A shot rang out and he almost jumped out of his skin, his right hand clenching as for a moment he swore he could see the round he'd imagined, could feel the pain...

No.

He might be an abomination in the eyes of God and the law but he was not a coward, not now.

 

 **A/N** I’m going to be honest, I wasn’t expecting to see as many hits for this story as have appeared which has been a pleasant surprise. Anyway here’s the second instalment where things had finally started to change as I warned you they would. Comments & Suggestions are always welcome. X


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Three;  
** **France, 1916**

_It's funny, the way things happen when you're least expecting them to._

_In the end I wasn't enough of a coward to go through with any sort of plan to get myself injured and shipped home to England._

_Or perhaps it was the other way round, perhaps I was too much of a coward to go through with willingly harming myself, something I had never been able to do even during the darkest days of my life._

_Whatever it was it meant that I couldn't do it, couldn't take the easy way out but now, looking back on my life, I wish to God I had._

_Anything to spare myself the pain of what came next._

_It's funny, the way things happen when you're least expecting them to._

~*~*~

It was a day like any other with the four stretcher bearers working together to rescue the wounded stranded in no-mans-land after the last "big push", the mud so bad that it took all four of them to carry one stretcher back and forth.

Jenkins and Davis were at the head of the stretcher, chatting with the young soldier who had taken a bullet to his thigh, shattering the bone, while Thomas and Peters carried the back of the stretcher when the biplane had been spotted.

It had taken far too long for any of them to realise that it wasn't one of theirs flying rapidly towards them as they made their slow progress back towards their own trenches.

"Shit!" Jenkins, Clifton's replacement, cried out loudly. "That's a Hun, that is!"

And even Thomas who had limited knowledge of aircraft and their tactics could tell that it was heading straight towards them.

"We need to go," he growled. "Now!"

"I'm trying!" Davids snapped, his welsh accent thickening considerably as the four of them struggled against the mud as the aeroplane got closer and closer.

Ahead of them the men watching them from the trenches had begun to call out for them to hurry, warning them of the danger they could see as plain as the clouds in the sky.

It wasn't enough that the Germans occasionally liked to shoot at the stretcher bearers when they were in no-mans-land but to use an aeroplane against them?

That seemed just a little bit extreme.

All too soon the plane was passing over their heads and, looking up as he was, Thomas could see the face of the young man who leaned out of the plane and dropped the single bomb down towards them.

It struck the ground directly on front of Jenkins and Davids, the force of the explosion that followed sending all of them flying up into the air with cries of fear and pain, shrapnel peppering their bodies, limbs flying off in opposite directions before they crashed back down to the ground in a large heap.

For a long moment Thomas held his breath, fearing that he had died and then quite suddenly he coughed, sucking in a sharp lungful of air and crying out as the pain finally hit him.

No, he wasn't dead.

Not yet anyway.

It felt as though the worst of his injuries were to his left side which made sense given that he'd been half turned away from the explosion, still watching the plane in shock.

He could move his left arm which was a good sign but given the amount of pain which shot through his body at even the tiniest of movement he decided to hold it completely still for a moment.

In comparison the left side of his face and neck seemed to be almost completely numb but, given the lack of vision he had from his eft eye and the blood he could taste in his mouth that wasn't a good thing.

"C-Corporal Barrow?" Peters voice was weak and filled with as much pain as Thomas was feeling with an added later of fear thrown in for good measure.

"M'here..." he somehow managed to mumble, his lips barely moving as he tried to form the words. “Hold on..."

Using his right arm which seemed relatively uninjured at the moment he pushed himself up into a sitting position, groaning as the world seemed to spin around him as though he had been drinking.

His left hand had ended up on his lap and, once the world had stabilised, he looked down and found himself gazing at a bloody mess of flesh and bone which barely seemed to resemble a hand at all.

"Oh..." he choked fearfully, unable to look away for a long moment.

His hand was gone...

"C-C-Corporal?"

Peters tearful voice dragged his attention away from the bloody stump resting in his lap and across to the young man, little more than a boy really, who was lying a couple of feet away from him with his face tilted towards him, tears streaming down his blood stained cheeks.

His upper body seemed relatively untouched but his legs were unfortunately another matter entirely.

They came to an abrupt halt just above his knees, flesh and bone torn away just like with Thomas's hand.

Only there was a lot more blood.

Using his good arm he somehow managed to pull himself through the blood stained mud until he was crouched at the younger man’s side.

Somehow Peters still had his satchel of medical supplies and Thomas raised it one handed, tipping out everything from inside it.

Working together they used a strip of bandage to put a tourniquet on each of Peter’s thighs before applying a dressing to each of the stumps.

This was then repeated with what was left of Thomas's hand.

"Jenkins?" Thomas managed to call out as he worked on securing the dressing around his stump. "Davids?"

"I think they're dead..." Peters sobbed, looking over at the other three bodies. "They're...they're in pieces...and the guy we were carrying hasn't...hasn't got a head..."

Thomas barely moved out of the way before Peters emptied the contents of his stomach between them.

"We need...t'get back...to our lines..."

Thomas forced the words out from between lips which seemed to be almost fused together.

He dreaded to think what he looked like now, what sort of damage had been done to the handsome features he'd always been so proud of.

"How?" Peters sobbed. "My legs...my legs are g-g-gone..."

Thomas huffed.

"I know..." he growled, beginning the difficult manoeuvre that was getting to his feet, the world spinning around him once more. "I'll jus'ave to...to carry you...s'best I can..."

It quickly became apparent that this was easier said than done, even taking into account his current speech impediment.

As soon as he tried to lift him onto his back a fearsome pain had shot down his left side, emanating from the hand Peters was using to pull himself up into his back by grabbing hold off Thomas's broad shoulders.

He suspected his scream was heard by men on both side of no-mans-land, the sound torn from his throat without permission or forethought.

"Sorry!" Peters cried out, letting go immediately and falling back to the ground with a pained scream of his own. "I'm s-sorry...I didn't realise you had injured your shoulders as well..."

"Shoulder..." Thomas eventually grunted. "Jus' the left one..."

The second time they tried was successful, Peters making sure not to touch anywhere on the left side of Thomas's body as they settled him into a piggyback ride position.

Not having legs to grab hold of was strange and forced Thomas to adapt, reaching behind himself with his good arm and supporting Peters under him mud covered bottom.

"Right..." Thomas grunted, already feeling unbalanced what with the unusual weight distribution, his impaired vision and depth perception and the thick mud beneath his feet. "Let's do this..."

One foot in front of the other he made his way slowly through the mud, avoiding the shell holes and barbed wire, with Peters held securely on his back.

"Please..." an unfamiliar voice startled him, almost causing him to stumble as he looked down into a shell hole to find three wounded men gazing back at him. "Send help...we've been here for days and we won't last much longer..."

These were some of the men they had originally been sent out to find.

Nodding as best he could he continued his journey towards the line of trenches, his vision swimming before him so much that he eventually missed the plank of wood he'd been walking on, stumbling forwards with a shocked cry which soon became one of pain when he landed on his wounded side.

Moments later there were unfamiliar hands pulling Peters away from him.

"We've got you, Corporal," an unfamiliar voice murmured. "We've got you now. Just hold on."

"No..." Thomas protested when the gently hands tried to pull him towards the trench. "Other men out there...have t'get them..."

"We'll send someone else..."

That wasn't good enough according to Thomas's pain addled brain and he began to struggle, pushing at the men who in reality were just trying to help him in his hour of need.

"I have t'get them..." he all but growled, finally pulling away from the men and lurching back towards no-mans-land, causing them to cry out in shock. "Not a coward...have t'get them...have t'get them now..."

Stumbling back through the mud he was vaguely aware that someone was following him amidst protests from a variety of other voices.

He didn't care.

He was the stretcher bearer.

It was his job to help these men.

It was his job.

Retracing his footsteps through no-mans-land would have been difficult on a good day but as injured as he was it was near impossible.

As such he found it almost impossible for find the shell hole with the three men but during his search he found six others, all wounded, all left behind and now, thanks to his determination in spite of his wounds and the help of the young soldier who had followed him, all rescued.

He wouldn't stop until he'd found those threes though.

They had asked him for help.

Begged him for help.

He had to find them.

Eventually he did but by then it was too late for one of them, his glassy eyes giving away the fact that life had fled his body but the other two were still alive and ready to be helped back to the trenches.

Only then did Thomas allow himself to be carried through the trenches on one of his own stretchers to the ambulance waiting for them all and it was only once they were all loaded on board the he finally gave into the darkness which had been slowly creeping into the corners of his already impaired vision.

 

 **A/N** So…I couldn’t very well leave poor Thomas at the front line for the rest of the war now could I? And I read an article about this stretcher bearer who survived an incident like this and the story just sort of wrote itself from there. Hope you enjoyed it. Comments/Suggestions always welcome. X


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Four; France, 1916**

_It's funny, the things you take for granted without even realising it._

_Like the fact that you were taught how to read and write more than just your own name as a child despite your “lack of exceptional talent” in either of these particular subjects._

_Like the fact that you always had clothes that fit and were suitable for the time of year or the occasion, even if they were hand-me-downs or riddled with riddled with patches and repairs._

_Like the fact that you had warm food in your belly._

_Like the fact that the water was safe to drink._

_Like the fact that you have two working hands with eight long fingers and two sturdy thumbs that were both dexterous and strong, allowing you to do whatever you needed to._

_Like the fact that your vision had always been considered perfect if not exceptional._

_It's not until you lose any or all of these that you suddenly realise how utterly grateful you should have been for having had them in the first place._

_It's not until you're trying to stay warm when you're ankle deep in putrid mud and dressed in a uniform that is neither the right size nor fit for purpose, the patches and repairs you had attempted to make having failed long ago under the considerable strain you put it through._

_It's not until you've gone days without any food at all let alone a hot meal or have just had to watch as a friend or comrade died from drinking poisoned or contaminated water that you realise how much you would give for a slice of crusty bread and a glass of fresh milk._

_It’s not until you’re forced to rely on someone else to get you dressed in the morning that you realise how much your independence relies on some of the things that you have lost._

_It’s not until you’re forced to relearn how to do every single task in your day to day life in a slightly different way than before, just so that you won’t be considered to be a burden y those you care about, that you realise how utterly easy things had been for you before._

_It’s funny, the things you take for granted without even realising it._

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

Having spent ten years in service Thomas was used to the sound of women chattering.

Unlike their male counterparts who sometimes reacted as though they were having teeth pulled when invited to join a conversation women, particularly young unattached women he'd found, seemed content to listen to the sound or their own voices almost all day long.

The young woman leaning over him, her hands at work on his head, was no exception.

“…so then I said to him _‘You'd better get back into that bed, mister, if you know what's good for you or I'll fetch Matron to come and give you a good talking to!’_ Not that I would have fetched Matron. She'd have had my head let alone his if I'd interrupted her with something so trivial but it was the only thing I could think of to threaten him with and even the. It didn't work. Corporal Foley had to help me literally drag him back to his bed which I'll tell you wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done. I'm strong, used to play cricket with my older brothers in the summer, but I'm not that strong! And then one of the other patients…”

“Do you ever stop to breathe?” Thomas found himself asking weakly, his words betraying the fact that he wasn't as asleep as she had obviously believed him to be given the way she helped in surprise and rearranged herself so she could meet his gaze. “Where am I?”

“Oh!” she gasped loudly, her hands fluttering around wildly. “You're in a hospital! My names Flora, sorry, Nurse Marshall. I was just finishing up changing your dressings.”

“Yes, I gathered that much given that I'm in a bed being looked after by a young woman in a nurses uniform,” Thomas responded, his voice still weak but still containing some of his usual sarcasm. “What I meant, Nurse Marshall, was am I still in France?”

He tried to contain the panic rising in his chest when he realised that she had been seeing to a dressing on his head, somewhere he hadn't realised he had been too badly injured.

Unlike his hand.

“Oh, yes, you're still in France,” she confirmed quickly, frowning as he lifted his left arm, finding it oddly unbalanced and incredibly painful and stared at the bandaged stump. “I'll just…I'll just fetch the Doctor who treated you so that he can explain…everything…”

She was gone before he could say anything more leaving him alone to stare at the spot where his hand had once been, nothing but air remaining, air and a stabbing pain.

He remembered losing his hand.

He also remembered that there had been something wrong with his shoulder of the same arm so it was no surprise to feel the ache spreading from that particular joint.

But he couldn't remember suffering a head wound and Peters hadn't…

Peters.

Using is good arm to push himself up off of the pillow he was resting against drew a pained gasp from between his pursed lips, his body trembling uncontrollably as he looked out across the sea of hospital beds searching for the boys familiar face amongst the occupants.

“So I hear that our hero is finally awake!” a sickeningly bright voice interrupted his search, gentle hands guiding him to lie back down before setting to work checking him over. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Corporal Barrow. You've been out for two days.”

Judging by the familiar nuances of the well-spoken voice this man was obviously an officer, most probably from a privileged background and despite his youth was utterly confident in both himself and his abilities, reminding Thomas somewhat of a certain Turkish gentleman.

“I'm not a hero…” he eventually mumbled, flinching as the young officer reached his head, his gentle touch sending shards of pain through his left eye socket. “Fuck…”

“That's not what I've heard, Corporal,” his doctor chuckled softly, obviously choosing to ignore the curse word his touch had just generated in favour of smiling across at Nurse Marshall who was hovering nervously on the other side of his bed. “Flora, be a dear and see if you can find Corporal Barrow a decent cup of tea while I have a chat with him.”

After giving the doctor a brilliant smile and an exaggerated nod the young woman, and Thomas seriously doubted she was really old enough to be out here so close to the fighting, hurried away leaving the two men alone in the relative peacefulness of the hospital ward.

“Where's Peters?” Thomas demanded before the doctor could speak again, once again trying to push himself up with his good arm to look for his young comrade again. “He was–”

“You know, I'd prefer it if you didn't ruin all my hard work putting you back together, Corporal Barrow,” the doctor interrupted him, gently forcing him to lie back down again. “And if Peters was one of the other men brought in at the same time as you then…”

“He was a stretcher bearer with me,” Thomas explained quickly. “Just a kid, really, shouldn't have been in the trenches at all. Lost…lost his legs when the…when the explosion…”

He wasn't normally so protective about his fellow soldiers but, as he'd said to the doctor who was now frowning at him ever so slightly, Peters was just a kid.

They weren't friend or anything like that, people didn't make friends with someone like Thomas, but they'd spent the past few months wading through mud together so he knew more about the kid than most people, knew that he was an only child to elderly parents, knew that he'd run away and lied about his age to join up in any way he could.

“Ah, I know who you mean,” the doctor finally announced. “He's in the next ward over.”

“Is…is he going to be…”

“He's expected to make a full recovery in time although he’ll never walk again,” the doctor reassured him, checking the dressing on his shoulder once more. “A friend of mine operated on him and, despite the trauma, the care he received initially saved his life and the rest of his legs, stopping the worst of the bleeding and keeping the wounds clean and, hopefully, free of infection. I'm going to guess you had something to do with that.”

Thomas felt himself slump back against his pillow filled with an unusual sense of relief.

So this was what worrying shout someone other than himself felt like…

“I'm also expecting you to make a full recovery although there will have to be certain adjustments to your life, I'm afraid,” the doctor continued, nodding towards the stump before spreading his hand wide and gesturing to Thomas's head. “Now I'll start at the top and work my way down, shall I? You were very lucky that the shrapnel which struck you in the head was only a glancing blow or you'd be dead. Couldn't save the eye though I'm afraid, old chap, but I’ve done what I can to make the surrounding scarring as minimal as possible.”

“Scarring…”

Thomas felt his entire body stiffen with fear and repulsion.

He was a stretcher bearer, he'd been to the various field hospitals and seen what was left of men who suffered injuries to their faces, seen the grotesque monsters they had become.

“Yes. There will be some, I’m afraid,” the young officer murmured apologetically before offering him a bright smile. “But all the nice girls love a war wound, especially on a hero.”

Thomas grimaced.

He wasn't a hero…

“Is it…is it very bad?” he asked hesitantly, gesturing to his face. “Do I…do I still look like…”

The young officer’s smile softened into something entirely different, more sympathetic.

“I can guarantee that it will not be anywhere near as bad as you are currently imagining,” he murmured softly. “The eyelid is pulled down slightly at the outer corner and there are several small cuts which will scar but nothing so bad as to completely disfigure you. I promise.”

Thomas sighed.

That was a small relief…but not much…

“What about…?”

He trailed off, gesturing towards his left arm with his good hand.

“Ah, yes, I'm afraid there was nothing I could do but tidy up the amputation, clean it out and sew it up so as to fight off any infections caused by the sheer amount of mud you managed to get in the wound,” the doctor explained, gently lifting the stump off of the bed and demonstrating the areas where he had done his work. “Once it's healed you should be able to commission a prosthetic, if you so want. Now in regards to your shoulder…”

“What about it?”

“You should regain some movement in time but it won’t be what it once was.”

Once again the explanation was given gently so as not to shock him too much, the doctor’s hands gently indicating where he had done his work as he continued to talk calmly.

“You had a nasty bit of shrapnel lodged in the bone,” he said, offering a Thomas a conspiratorial smile. “Bit of a bugger to remove, if I’m honest, but we won in the end.”

Nurse Marshall chose that precise moment to return with a cup of tea, the white cup sparklingly clean although the saucer had a little pool of spilt tea in the middle of it.

“Here's the cup of tea you requested, Captain Hesketh-Thorne,” she murmured, finally supplying his struggling brain with the name of his doctor and even in his shocked state he wasn't surprised to hear the double-barrelled surname. “I brewed a fresh pot just for you.”

“You're a treasure, Marshall,” Captain Hesketh-Thorne responded with a winning smile, his handsome looks making it plain to Thomas that he was a natural charmer. “Would you mind ensuring that Corporal Barrow manages to drink all of it while I return to my other patients?”

“Of course,” Nurse Marshall agreed, moving to perch on her stool once more and spilling more tea into the saucer in the process. “I made sure to put plenty of sugar in as well.”

Thomas hated sugar in his tea but his logical mind informed him thst sweet tea was good for shock and he was definitely suffering from shock, his mind still replaying each description of his various wounds over and over again inside his head with emphasis on the scarring

He'd always been a vain man

His looks were one of the things he had been blessed with in life and he truly believed that most of the good fortune he'd ever experienced had been a by product of said looks.

What would he do now if he was left as nothing more than a monster?

Captain Hesketh-Thorne disappeared after promising to return later to check up on him, his white coat tales billowing behind him as he hurried toward the operating tent where someone, a new arrival at the field hospital no doubt, was screaming hysterically.

Nurse Marshall began chattering away almost instantly, carefully lifting the cup to his lips once it had cooled enough that it wouldn't scold him and helping him to take a sip despite the fact that he was perfectly capable of picking up a cup with his good hand.

He just couldn't hold the saucer any more.

She didn't notice his melancholy mood and so, once the tea in all its sickeningly sweet glory was all gone, she checked his bandages one final time and then hurried off to continue with the rest of her duties, her bright voice filling the ward for a long moment as she stopped to chat with various patients on her way out before finally silence fell once more.

Almost as soon as he was alone he turned his face so that what would forever be known as the good side from that moment on was pressed into his pillow and began to weep softly.

**A/N** I'm sorry! I'll make him happy, I promise. It's just…not in the near distant future if you get my meaning but then when had Thomas’s happiness been a priority in the show? I'm not a doctor so please excuse any medical inaccuracies (I tried to keep it as vague as possible so as to keep those to a minimum). Hope you enjoyed it. Comments/suggestions always welcome. X


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

 

**Chapter Five;  
France, 1916/1917**

_It's funny, how sometimes the last thing you want is to be the centre of attention._

_I'm an envious creature by nature, always wanting what other people have or desiring praise and attention for even the simplest thing. I know my mother was partially to blame for this, coddling me as a child, giving into my every demand without a moment’s hesitation._

_Until she learned what I truly was, that is, and then it all stopped overnight._

_Of course by then I was used to receiving praise for every little thing and began to doubt everything about myself when I no longer received the usual encouraging words._

_I was used to being the centre of everyone's attention and, while I still garnered people’s attention, it was always for the wrong reasons. Whereas before it was as though I could do no wrong it became evident to me, even as a child, that I could no longer do anything right._

_At first when I'd entered into service the praise had returned, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes genuinely pleased by my actions and the progress I made._

_I can't pinpoint the exact moment this changed, probably about the time they realised the same thing my mother did, and after that I had to content myself with whatever attention I could get, good or bad._

_Daisy's infatuation with me and my treatment of both her and William at the time had been a great source of attention for me, fulfilling my needs almost effortlessly. Now, though, I wish I'd been strong enough to deny myself and to allow them their bit of happiness._

_And then had come the war._

_It's funny, how sometimes the last thing you want is to be the centre of attention._

~ * ~ * ~

Thomas had finally been allowed out his bed a couple of days previously but only so much in that he was now allowed to sit outside when the weather was pleasant enough. As such he was sat outside in a wheelchair, a cigarette clutched between fingers of his good hand as he ignored both the freezing temperature and the snow upon the ground, when Nurse Marshall hurried over to him with one hand clutching a crumpled letter while the other valiantly held onto her starched white cap which, as per usual, was in danger of falling off.

“Corporal Barrow!” she gasped, stumbling to a halt in front of him in such a way that she sent snow flying up onto both his blankets and those of the men with him. Her already flushed cheeks darkened further. “Sorry, but you'll never guess what just came for you!”

“Would it by chance have been a letter?”

He kept his tone light and teasing, gesturing towards the letter she held with his cigarette before taking a long drag from the little piece of heaven in this hellhole they were in.

“Oh!”

There was no way that the young woman in front of him was the required twenty-three years of age required to serve overseas within the Voluntary Aid Detachment, not with the way she still pouted like a child or stomped her foot whenever the men teased her.

“You're to be awarded the _Victoria Cross_ ,” she announced unceremoniously, pressing the letter into his hand while the cigarette was held between his lips. “For conspicuous bravery.”

Thomas forgot all about the cigarette, his mouth dropping open in shock and only her quick actions saved the letter from being destroyed as the his cigarette fell into his lap, her hands quickly snatching it up and dropping it down into the snow at her feet. The men he was sat with, who had still been chuckling deeply over her latest behaviour, fell completely silent.

"…what did you just say?”

“You're to be awarded the _Victoria Cross_ for _conspicuous bravery_ ,” she repeated, tapping the letter to draw his attention to it. When he simply stared down at in stunned silence she huffed loudly, took hold of the letter once more and began to read it aloud. “ _During recent operations Corporal Barrow displayed the greatest gallantry and devotion to duty._ "

"You have got to be joking..."

Thomas couldn't believe it.

This couldn't really be happening, could it?

"I'm not finished,” she pointed out, clearing her throat loudly before continuing with her recital of the important letter. “ _Despite being wounded himself Corporal Barrow repeatedly moved some way in front of our advanced line and brought in men under continuous bombardment and machine-gun fire. His heroism was the means of saving many lives..._ "

"It wasn't many lives, it was eight...nine if you include Peters…” Thomas grumbled loudly, shifting in his wheelchair as he felt countless eyes turning to look at him in all his disfigured and bandaged glory. “And it definitely weren't under continuous bombardment…”

"Bloody hell..." “You never said you…” “Corp…”

Thomas felt himself flushing as several voices murmured as one, his good hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. And to think there was a time he would have relished all of the attention that his actions had brought, would have stood up and taken a bow even.

Now he just wished they'd leave him alone.

"Can I finish reading this now?” Nurse Marshal asked, pausing until everyone had fallen silent once more. Thomas noticed that several people had stopped to listen. “ _His heroism was the means of saving many lives and provided a magnificent example of courage and determination to the fighting men in whose midst he was carrying out his splendid work."_

Thomas snatched the piece of paper from her, his eyes flickering across the page until her found the sentence he had honestly expected to be her interpretation of official jargon but had in fact been taken word for word from the official looking document. _Splendid work_. What sort of a person uses the phrase _splendid work_ during a citation for a medal?

“I need a drink…” he found himself muttering, much to his fellow soldier’s amusement and approval but Nurse Marshall tutted loudly when she heard that. “What? Alcohols good for shock, don't you know that, Nurse? Failing that I need another fag. The bloody _VC_ …”

~ * ~ * ~

Despite his numerous protests the hospital, or rather the officers further up the command chain who were keen to take advantage of his commendation, insisted that such a “momentous occasion” could not possibly be “swept under the rug” and so everything was arranged for the _Prince of Wales_ to visit the hospital, during which time there would a suitable ceremony to present Thomas with his commendation.

When the day finally arrived Thomas was scrubbed, polished and primped almost as much as his newly issued uniform had been, Nurse Marshal seeming to take great delight in “prettying him up” for the occasion to the point that she had even managed to find some pomade which she used to smooth down his dark hair.

He was somewhat alarmed when she approached him with a straight razor.

“You sure you know how to use that?”

Until then he had been expected to deal with their own personal grooming using one of the safety razors the hospital had to hand but apparently this wasn't good enough for such an important day and so, with a loud huff in response to his rude question, Nurse Marshal got to work giving him the closest shave he had received in years.

His face had been clear of bandages for a week or so now, the healing wounds on display for all to see, but normally Thomas allowed his hair to hide the worst of them.

It hadn't been until a couple of days ago that he'd been able to convince one of the orderlies to fetch him a mirror so that he could actually see what his face looked like.

A part of him wished he'd remained clueless for the rest of his life.

Contrary to what Captain Hesketh-Thorne had said he didn't think that the scarring to the left side of his face could ever be deemed minimal although, admittedly, it also wasn't the worst he'd seen and would never be deemed a complete disfigurement.

His left eyebrow was split by a ‘Y’ shaped scar, the tail of which curved along the crease of his eyelid before cutting through the outer corner of his eye, joining with the largest of the scars, a mess of uneven lines which covered his temple and cheek.

Just as he’d been warned the eyelid was permanently pulled down halfway across his sightless eye but he hadn’t been forewarned that the top portion of his left ear was completely missing, nothing but a jagged lump remaining behind in its place.

There were four smaller scars which couldn't be concealed by his hair, one on the side of his nose, the second splitting his lips towards the left corner and the third and fourth (the only ones he'd definitely known about until then) curving under his jaw.

Getting him into his new uniform revealed the rest of his scars covering his shoulder, torso and arm, the stump off his left wrist the only wound still heavily bandaged.

Even his boots had been polished for the occasion and the sling which his left arm was carefully placed into so as not to jar his still healing shoulders joint was starched.

All in all he felt ridiculous but looked, according to Flora, _absolutely marvellous_.

He spent the few moments of peace which followed her preparations working his way through a packet of cigarettes but all too soon it was time for him to join the others gathering on the hospital parade ground in anticipation of Prince Edward’s arrival.

It had been announced that anyone who wished to attend the presentation may do so and so the men who had gathered in smart rows and columns were at various states of recovery, some even sitting in wheelchairs like Peters who offered him a bright smile and a cheerful wave as he took his place in the centre of the front row.

To the left of the patients the various hospital personnel; doctors, orderlies and such, had gathered in equally smart rows and columns while the nurses who had joined them stood under the watchful gaze of Sister Quayle in a less regimented group.

Lieutenant-Colonel Brett, the hospitals commanding officer who oddly enough reminded Thomas of Mr Crawley’s valet come butler, Mr Molesley, and Matron Carter emerged from his office just as the main gate was opened to admit an elegant looking Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost containing a collection of high ranking officers.

“Attention!”

Responding automatically to the order Thomas braced himself as best as he could whilst still being careful of his left shoulder as the car glided to a gentle halt.

All eyes were on the smartly dressed officers as they alighted from the vehicle in what was obviously a specific order which left their much anticipated guest of honour exiting last, being greeted by a smart salute from Lieutenant-Colonel Brett even as one of the officers escorting announced rather pompously,

_“His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”_

If possible the gathered soldiers stood even straighter despite already being at the position of attention, desperate to look as smart as possible for the heir to the throne.

He wore the military rank of Captain and as far as uniforms went he wore it well. Thomas couldn't help but assess the handsome man currently making small talk with Lieutenant-Colonel Brett and Matron Carter, no doubt complaining light-heartedly about the bitterly cold weather they were experiencing, the snow still covering some of the ground and the pitiful state of the dirt roads leading up to the field hospital.

Thomas couldn't imagine a member of the royal family straying from the approved subjects of conversation that the nobility seemed to live by when in polite company.

Eventually it was decided that it was time to begin the presentation, Prince Edward clapping his gloved hands together as a small table was produced, covered with a clean purple cloth which Thomas suspected had been liberated from the church tent.

Resting on top was a case, no doubt containing the honour he was about to receive.

“Corporal Thomas Barrow, Royal Army Medical Corps,” Lieutenant-Colonel Brett called out suddenly, his voice significantly firmer than the man who he bore such a striking resemblance to. Thomas obediently stepped forwards so that he was no longer hidden within the line of wounded men. “The _Victoria Cross_ is the highest military decoration awarded for valour in the face of the enemy to members of our armed forces. It may be awarded to a person of any military rank.”

One of the officers retrieved the case from the table and present it to the _Prince of Wales_ who proceeded to remove the medal from within it, smiling broadly for a moment before making his way across the parade ground towards Thomas.

“The…hum…the citation reads as follows,” Lieutenant-Colonel Brett continued, fishing a piece of paper out of his pocket so that he could read the words Thomas had already heard once before. _“During recent operations Corporal Barrow displayed the greatest gallantry and devotion to duty. Despite being wounded himself Corporal Barrow repeatedly moved some way in front of our advanced line and brought in men under continuous bombardment and machine-gun fire. His heroism was the means of saving many lives. His heroism was the means of saving many lives and provided a magnificent example of courage and determination to the fighting men in whose midst he was carrying out his splendid work."_

“Congratulations, Corporal Barrow,” the Prince murmured sincerely as he reached out to carefully pin the medal in its proper place on Thomas’s tunic. “Good show.”

It was ridiculous.

Yes, he was proud of the fact that his actions had merited an award and would enjoy showing it off when the time came but he couldn't help but think they went a little too far by giving him the _Victoria Cross_. He'd have been more comfortable receiving the _Distinguished Combat Medal_ or even the newly created _Military Medal._

Giving him the _Victoria Cross_ made him seem like he was some sort of a hero which, as anyone who knew him would testify to without hesitation, he certainly was not.

Not to mention it was drawing far too much unwanted attention to his ruined face and he was still among his comrades. What would it be like when he got home?

Relying on his years of etiquette training under the tutelage of Mr Carson and the military training he had received at the start of the war Thomas concealed his negative thoughts and feelings and responded to the praise with a smart salute, thankful that his right hand was intact and undamaged and a murmured response.

“Thank you, _Your Royal Highness_ ,” he began, his voice coming out as silky smooth as it had whenever he'd been addressing his employers or their guests back at the abbey. He offered the prince a small smile as he continued, finally meeting his gaze and finding a surprisingly warm pair of blue eyes. “And if you don't mind my saying so it is an honour to receive my medal from someone such as yourself, sir.”

That much was true.

It was an honour, just an honour he didn't think he truly deserved.

Shaking the gloved hand which was offered to him Thomas became aware of a somewhat familiar sound coming from his left and, turning his head so as to glance that way with his good eye he found one of the officers stood only a few paces away from them holding a small box camera, one of the latest models in productions, in such a way that it was obvious he had been tasked with photographing the event.

Wonderful…

It just so happened that the _Prince of Wales_ chose that moment to glance towards the camera as well, the two of them still shaking hands and it was the photograph created in that particular instant which was eventually featured in numerous newspapers and magazines, each of them regaling the public with tales of the Prince.

One such magazine was ‘The Sketch’ who featured the photograph as part of a two page spread about the various presentations the _Prince of Wales_ had participated in since arriving at the front line and, as anyone who had worked at the Abbey knew, Lady Cora was a loyal subscriber who delighted in nothing more than devouring each issue from cover to cover.

“Oh!”

“My Lady? What is it?”

“Not what, O’Brien, but who…Thomas…”

**A/N** The ending of this chapter was supposed to be something completely different but apparently my subconscious mind was having none of that. Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. I did quite a lot of research in the Victoria Cross and its recipients in the Great War as well as looking into Prince Edwards wartime record. That said I am not a professional historian so please take everything with a pinch of salt. Comments/Suggestions welcome. X


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

 

**Chapter Six; England, 1917**

_It's funny, how sometimes your life can go in a circle and you end up back where you began._

_I'm not talking of my childhood home._

_No, I never went back there, not even after my parents had been killed in the flu epidemic._

_I'm talking of the first place I ever lived where I felt like I belonged, where I had a purpose._

_Downton Abbey._

_I can still remember every tiny detail about the grand building which served as the ancestral home of the Crawley family even now after so many years have come and gone._

_I guess that's not very surprising given how much of my life I spent under its roof._

_And yet I had joined the ‘Royal Army Medical Corps’ on the outbreak of war in order to get away from the significant amount of trouble I’d caused for myself in the place I called home._

_I'd walked out of the servant’s entrance expecting never to return._

_It's funny, how sometimes your life can go in a circle and you end up back where you began._

_~ * ~_

Having been lucky enough to secure a seat by the window Thomas removed his cap and placed it upside-down on his lap before leaning his head back on the cushioned seat, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side so that he could watch the world passing by the window. It felt strange to be back in England after all this time.

There were times during his last few weeks at the field hospital that he had truly begun to believe that he would never be going home, that they would keep him in France until the war ended despite no longer being “ _fit for purpose_ ” as one of the orderlies had put it. Nurse Marshall had been a fountain of optimism, of course, and had never allowed him to “ _fall into a funk_ ” as some of the more wretched souls had done, giving up all hope and instead just waiting to die.

She'd forced him to be active. They'd gone for walks together when she'd been off duty, prompting a multitude of rumours which had done wonders for Thomas’ mood when he'd heard each ridiculous theory about their supposed relationship.

Apparently they were in love, or rather in lust, and more than one person had congratulated him on managing to snare such a pretty partner.

Some had been slightly more honourable and had chosen instead to warn him about treating her properly. Either way it had made him laugh, genuinely laugh, because they couldn't have been further from the truth if they'd tried.

If the weather hadn't been favourable for a walk she had enlisted his help in writing out letters, his handwriting being every bit as neat as hers, and he’d reluctantly copied the messy scrawl in her notebook into something more appealing to read. There’d been letters to mothers, to fathers, to sisters and brothers, letters to sweethearts asking them to be true or sometimes setting them free from their promise, letters to previous employers asking if their jobs were still available, all sent from soldiers who were too wounded or too weak to compose them themselves.

And when there were no letters left to write she'd enlisted his help in reading to the soldiers suffering from gas blindness. He'd sit beside their beds and read them their letters, articles from out of date newspapers or, as was most popular, copies of the trench magazine ‘ _The Wipers Times_ ’ which were constantly appearing in the hospital despite the fact that the publication wasn't strictly condoned by the higher ups.

Thomas had brought a couple of copies home with him, folded carefully along with all of the letters he'd received whilst recovering at the field hospital and tucked into the numerous pockets although his favourite copy was kept inside his cap.

Thinking about it now he looked away from the achingly familiar scenery they were passing by and carefully retrieved to the thin magazine from its hiding place, opening it to the individual page which had prompted him to save this particular copy from being used for an alternative purpose in the trenches – as toilet paper.

On the page was a single poem.

_‘To My Chum’_

_No more we'll share the same old barn,_

_The same old dug-out, same old yarn,_

_No more a tin of bully share,_

_Nor split our rum by a star-shells flare,_

_So long old lad._

_What times we've had, both good and bad,_

_We've shared what shelter could be had,_

_The same old crump-hole when the whizz-bangs shrieked,_

_The same old billet that always leaked,_

_And now - you've “stopped one.”_

_We'd weathered the storm two winters long,_

_We'd managed to grin when all went wrong,_

_Because together we fought and fed,_

_Our hearts were light: but now - you're dead,_

_And I am mateless._

_Well, old lad, here's peace to you,_

_And for me, well, there's my job to do,_

_For you and the others who lie at rest,_

_Assured may be that we'll do our best,_

_In vengeance._

_Just one more cross by a strafed road-side,_

_With it's G.R.C., and a name for guide,_

_But it's only myself who has lost a friend,_

_And though I may fight through to the end,_

_No dug-out or billet will be the same,_

_And pals can only be pals in name,_

_But we'll carry on till the end of the game,_

_Because you lie there._

 

Many a soldier has been brought to tears by those heartfelt words written by someone in pain and read in his softest voice, each of them remembering the friends that hadn't been as lucky as they were to survive their time spent in the trenches.

Carefully replacing the magazine back in his cap, struggling to hold the offending item still with his mostly healed stump, he became very much aware of the looks he was receiving from the group of young women who were sat opposite him.

There was pity, as he had come to expect to see in people’s faces since stepping off the boat from France, and a little bit of disgust which he could hardly blame them for given his scars but mostly they looked at him with various expressions of gratitude.

Given the way all of their eyes had flickered to one particular part of his tunic it was pretty obvious that they’d noticed the distinctive purple ribbon which Flora had eagerly sewn onto his uniform for him following the presentation ceremony.

He had Lady Cora, of all people, to thank for the fact that he was still in uniform.

It wasn't until after he'd finally received his “ _Blighty Ticket_ ” confirming the fact that he was going home that he'd genuinely begun to worry about what the future would hold for him. His wartime service in the Medical Corps was no doubt over due to his injuries and there was no way he could return to his previous occupation. After all who would want to hire a permanently scarred, half blind, crippled former footman?

No one; that was who.

Or so he had thought.

He had just been helped into the back of the truck which was to be the first part of his journey back to England when Flora had come sprinting out of Ward C with a couple of envelopes clutched in her hand, all but screaming for him and begging him to stop.

It had made almost everyone in the vicinity stop and stare at the two of them.

“Thomas!” she’d gasped, bouncing off the side of the truck in her haste to reach him. He winced in sympathy but she just shrugged it off. “These letters just came for you!”

“You could have forwarded them on, you know?” he’d chuckled deeply, reaching down to accept the envelopes from her. “Are you ok? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, I’m fine,” she’d answered without hesitation but the fact that she’d winced ever so slightly while retrieving another envelope from her pocket contradicted her statement. He hadn’t called her on it. “This ones from me. You will write, won't you?”

And hadn't that been fuel for the rumours about their romantic involvement.

“Of course I will,” he'd reassured just as the truck engine started, the last of the wounded soldier having been successfully helped on board. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

There had been three letters in total including hers and, unbuttoning his breast pocket rather awkwardly he drew them out in order to use them as an excuse not to strike up a conversation with the young women now smiling across at him and blushing, giggling every now and then. He was pretty sure he'd heard one of them murmur something along the lines of _catching herself a hero_.

He set aside the first one, written by Miss O’Brien, in favour of opening the letter that hers had been warning him about – the one from Lady Cora, Countess of Grantham.

_My Dear Thomas,_

_I was most distressed to hear from Miss O'Brien that you were injured whilst serving at the front but am greatly relieved to hear that your recovery is going well. As I understand it your injuries are likely to result in your return to England at which time your future will become uncertain._

_Miss O’Brien relayed to me your desire to continue serving your country in some way and, as such, I have put in a good word with you at the Cottage Hospital which as you know has been taken over by the Army to care for wounded officers._

_Major Clarkson was pleased to offer you the position of head orderly and he requests that you return to him upon your return to England. I would also like to reassure you that as long as I have a say in the matter you will always have a position here at Downton Abbey should you wish to return._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Cora, Countess of Grantham_

Having spent years serving Lady Cora and her family he knew how they operated and as such knew how to read between the lines of her letter. There was no doubt in his mind that Major Clarkson had been anything but pleased to offer him the position of head orderly but had been unable to find a plausible reason to deny her request.

His official orders, signed and sealed, had been waiting for him when he'd reported to the hospital in London along with his travel warrant which would take him from King’s Cross, London to Ripon. Once there it was up to him to make his own way.

Nurse Marshall’s letter had been anything but brief, her style of writing painfully similar to her style of conversation. She began on one subject but was soon distracted by another and another, filling page after page with a seemingly endless ramble which had succeeded in making him chuckle softly. Eventually her letter had returned to the original subject, staying in contact with each other, and she had proceeded to list every single point of contact she could think of including but not limited to the field hospital, the VAD Headquarters in London, her parents address in Abingdon-on-Thames, her sister-in-law’s address and even her local church.

She'd concluded her long letter with a request that he send her his address once everything had settled down for him and he knew for sure where he would be staying.

It was strange.

He hadn't set out to befriend her but the innocent young woman who had reminded her of the youngest member of the Crawley family with all her youthful enthusiasm and determination had worked her way into his life and now refused to leave.

There were worse people to be friends with, however, and she did make him smile.

Alighting from the train at Ripon had required one of the young women, giggling all the while, opening the door for him as he had to carry his pathetic amount of belongings with his remaining hand as it was physically impossible for him to work the intricate door handle with his stump. In return for his murmured gratitude, given out of habit more than sincerity, he'd received an unwelcome kiss to his good cheek and a flirtatious giggle before her friends had pulled her back onto the train.

It took all of his strength not to scrub at his cheek like a child as he left the station.

Pausing outside as soon as he was able he carefully set about dressing himself in his webbing equipment, pulling the shoulder straps on first before wrapping the belt around his waist and, holding one side in place with his stump, connected the brass fittings to secure it. His khaki coloured webbing was ever so slightly different to that of an ordinary soldier due to his occupation as a stretcher bearer, the two ammunition packs having been replaced with first aid kits, but he still had the regulation attachment for the entrenching tool handle, the entrenching tool head in its web cover, a water bottle carrier, a small haversack and a large pack.

His mess tin hung from the pack on his back, covered in khaki coloured cloth cover.

It was heavy, his pack containing a blanket and his greatcoat, and pulled painfully on his bad shoulder when he finally set off along the familiar road which would eventually lead him to the picturesque village of Downton.

The nine mile journey was nothing compared to some of the distances he'd covered in France so it certainly wouldn't be a problem, especially not as he was planning to take it at a leisurely pace so as to not aggravate his various injuries.

He'd been walking for about fifteen minutes, admiring the familiar scenery as he went, when he heard a motor car approaching from behind him and stepped onto the grass verge out of habit so as to keep out of the way what with the road being quite narrow just there and he was somewhat surprised by the driver of the vehicle bringing it to an abrupt halt only a couple of feet after passing him.

A hand emerged from inside the vehicle, reaching out to turn the exterior handle before retreating so as to push the door open, allowing the occupant to tumble out onto the road at which point Thomas was able to recognise them.

“Lady Edith?”

Hearing that the middle Crawley daughter was driving and seeing it for himself were two very different things and as such he could be forgiven for not noticing her unusual dress until she'd already moved to stand directly in front of him, smiling broadly up at him. She was dressed, to put it simply, like a man.

In fact the only thing feminine about her entire outfit was the brown hat pinned atop her delicate golden curls and the shapely knee high leather boots.

“Thomas!” she exclaimed happily even as he continued to stare at her in confusion. Her penetrating gaze flickered from the empty cuff of his tunic to the scars on his face. “I thought it was you! How wonderful to see you looking so well. Mama told us you'd been wounded in action but I have to be honest we had no idea it was so…so…”

Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of what was hidden beneath the peak of his cap and he automatically ducked his head in response, his cheeks flushing deeply.

“Thank you for your concern,” he murmured, clinging to the manners which had been ingrained into him despite the churning in his gut. “I'm…I'm much better now.”

“Mama told us you were being transferred to the hospital. Is that where you're heading?” she enquired, pointedly meeting his gaze without flinching or even looking towards his scars. Obviously one glance was enough. He nodded hesitantly, his hand absently moving to cradle his stump. “Then isn't it fortuitous that I had an errand to run in Ripon today? Hop in, I'll give you a lift and we'll have you there in no time.”

His protests were met with blind stubbornness, a family trait of the Crawley’s, and soon he was ensconced in the front of the car alongside one of his former employers. He had to admit, if only to himself, that it was a relief for his injured shoulder.

She didn’t seem at all bothered by his silence for the duration of the journey, combatting it with a continuous stream of chatter, updating him on almost everything to do with the family and their friends since the outbreak of war.

Thomas was surprised by how much Miss O'Brien had left out of her letters given that she was one of the most committed gossips he'd ever met but perhaps she'd through he wouldn't be interested in hearing every little detail of Crawley’s lives.

Eventually they reached the familiar building and she pulled the vehicle over to stop beside a military ambulance which was in the process of unloading a wounded officer on a stretcher, the nurses fluttering around him like worried butterflies as he was carried through the stone archway and along the path towards the main entrance.

“Thomas,” Lady Edith called out as he slipped out of the car while she remained behind the steering wheel upon which her leather clad hands rested. “Good luck.”

He offered her a small smile as he carefully shut the door.

“Thank you,” he murmured softly, offering her a polite nod before slipping away and following the path the poor patient on the stretcher had taken mere moments before. Entering the building he paused in front of a young nurse holding a clipboard, a pencil clutched in her hand as she frowned down at the sheet of paper. “Excuse me. I'm looking for Major Clarkson? Could you point me in his general direction?”

She stared at him for a moment, still frowning just as hard as she had been before.

“I believe he's in his office at the moment,” she finally answered, her lyrical welsh accent taking him by surprise. “Would you like me to get someone to escort you?”

“No,” Thomas refused softly. “I know the way. Thanks.”

He was very much aware of the looks which followed him as he made his way through the busy hospital but not a single soul moved to intercept him on his journey and all too soon he came to a halt in front of the familiar door made of an incredibly dark type of wood, his eyes finding the gleaming brass plaque upon which _Major Richard Clarkson R.A.M.C_ had been carefully engraved in cursive handwriting.

Squaring his shoulders he raised his remaining hand and knocked sharply.

“Enter!”

Opening the door he entered the room swiftly, making sure to shut it softly behind him before coming to the position of attention directly in front of the desk in the centre of the room at which the familiar doctor was sat carefully studying several sheets of paper. He fixed his gaze on the painting hanging on the wall behind his new commanding officer as the silence stretched on, pressing his thumb against the seam of his trousers as he bristled with indignation at being ignored by the older man.

“Corporal Barrow, sir,” he finally murmured firmly. “Reporting for duty as ordered.”

Major Clarkson visibly stiffened but his eyes never strayed from the page even as he finally addressed the young man who had entered his office a full minute ago.

“Corporal Barrow, contrary to what you might had been told I did not request for you be transferred here out of the goodness of my heart,” he announced, setting the file aside only to pick up a sheet of paper. “In fact if it were up to me I would have recommended that you be sent back to your unit as soon as you were declared fit.”

“ _Fit_?” Thomas scoffed loudly before he could stop himself, insulted by the officer behaviour and obvious lack of interest. Hadn’t he been told about the extent of Thomas’ injuries? “With all due respect, _sir_ , I am no longer capable of completing the duties which would be required of me as a stretcher bearer due to my injuries.”

Thomas had a hard time controlling his expression when the doctor finally looked up at him, his blue eyes widening in undisguised surprise as he took in the figure standing on the other side of his cluttered desk. For the first time since leaving the field hospital Thomas willingly reached up to remove his cap, brushing his inky black hair back from his face to reveal in the full extent of the damage to his face.

He couldn't help but offer the older man a bitter smirk as he let out a shocked gasp.

“I…I was unaware of the severity of your injuries…”

“Yes, well when a plane drops a bomb in front of the stretcher you're helping to carry out of No-Mans-Land it tends to cause a significant amount of damage,” Thomas responded to the soft admission sharply, replacing his cap as smartly as he could with one hand and a stump. It always seemed to end up at a jaunty angle. “I was lucky, actually. The two men at the front end of the stretcher and the casualty were killed by the blast, or possibly by the shrapnel which as I'm sure you know is just as dangerous, and Peters who was beside me lost his legs. All I lost was my hand…”

He couldn't help but make a point of waving the offending limb towards the officer.

“Not to mention the full range of motion in my shoulder…” he added softly as though it were an afterthought. “And let's not forget about the sight in my left eye…”

Thomas shrugged as best he could, one shoulder moving a significant amount more than the other and Clarkson's eyes followed every movement as closely as they could.

“I…I would like to apologise for making undue assumptions about you injuries, Corporal Barrow,” the officer eventually murmured, his tone sincere as he pushed himself up from his seat and rounded the desk so that he was stood directly in front of the Thomas. After staring down at where Thomas’ arm ended for a long moment, his sleeve hanging empty for the last few inches, he finally met the young mans eyes. “You are aware that such an injury could have earned you a medical discharge?”

“What would I do then?” Thomas scoffed loudly, his harsh tone of voice causing the older man to flinch. “I can't return to my old occupation as I am and I'm too old, too set in my ways to learn a new one. I'll be one of those cripples you see begging on street corners the moment the Army no longer needs me so if it's all the same to you I'm going to make sure that the Army needs me for as long as I possibly can.”

Clarkson hummed thoughtfully before eventually nodding.

“You'll be taking over the duties of _Head Orderly_ here at the hospital and as such you have been promoted to the rank of Sergeant,” he eventually announced, producing the familiar patch with its distinctive three chevrons from his pocket. “You’ll need to get these sewn on before you start your shift tomorrow at 0700. You can take the rest of today to settle in to your quarters and familiarise yourself with the hospital.”

There was a moment of pure awkwardness as Major Clarkson watched him pushed the patch into his trouser pocket, the move more awkward than it should have been due to the way his hand was shaking inexplicably. Eventually it was secure and he was able to remove his hand from his pocket, offering the officer a surprisingly smart salute before exiting the room as fast as his legs could possible take him, desperate to get away from the growing look of pity he had been receiving and immediately began searching for someone who would be able to lead him to his new quarters.

In the end the orderly he enlisted to lead him to his new accommodation was almost painfully young, wide eyed and gushing about how much he wanted to get to the front. Not even Thomas’ silence and stony look could put him off from explaining his life story; how he had desperately wanted to be a _real_ soldier but had been told he had “flat feet” during his medical and so had _had to settle_ for becoming an orderly as he led Thomas out to a field to the rear of the hospital where a tent had been pitched.

“All of us orderlies are in here,” the boy explained cheerfully as he lifted the canvas flap so that they could enter, revealing that the tent was basically a smaller version of the ones which had been utilised as wards in the field hospital. Even the layout of the simple metal beds along either side of the tent was exactly the same. “They've put the nurses up in town but apparently there wasn't enough room for all of us so we got stuck in here. It's not too bad, I guess, but it don't half get cold at night.”

Thomas scoffed.

“And you say you want to go to France,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief at the naivety being displayed before him. The boy was practically walking, talking cannon fodder just waiting for his turn to be thrown over the top. “This is luxury compared to the trenches. Canvas overhead to keep out the rain? An actual bed complete with mattress and clean sheets? Access to fresh water and clean ablutions?”

His guide’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

“…I thought…”

“If you're lucky to be posted to a field hospital this is pretty much what you'll get,” Thomas agreed, gesturing to their current surroundings with his stump. His guide gulped audibly. If anything his eyes grew even wider when faced with Thomas’ injury. “But if you do manage to get sent to the trenches you'll get a dugout if you're lucky and an open trench if you're not. Mud up to your ankles, sometimes up as high as your waist. I had a sheet of tarpaulin for a while to keep out the worst of the rain before it got peppered with shrapnel and ended up more holes than tarpaulin.”

“…is that how you were injured?” the boy eventually asked. “By the shrapnel?”

“No,” Thomas answered shortly. He wouldn't mince his words about his time at the front, not if it could stop someone as you and innocent as the boy staring at him in open-mouthed shock from doing something so incredibly stupid as volunteering to get even though he was medically except or even falsifying his records so that they’d let him go. “I was injured by a bomb which was dropped from a German plane whilst we were retrieving wounded men from No-Mans-Land. Now which bed is mine?”

His question finally wiped the stunned expression off of the boy’s face.

“Oh! Yours is this one!” he gasped loudly, leading Thomas across the main section of the tent to a large canvas screen which he pulled aside to reveal a small area which contained a single bed, a small bedside table with a battered looking oil lamp resting on top of it, a small chair and what appeared to be a recycled military supply crate, turned into a sort of trunk for him to keep his things in. “Your predecessor liked his privacy and we had a feeling you'd probably appreciate it as well, Sergeant Barrow.”

That answered the question as to whether or not they were aware of his promotion.

“Should I…do you need help unpacking?”

“No, thank you, I can manage,” Thomas replied, already unbuckling his belt so that he could drop his webbing down onto the bed. That was a relief. “What's your name?”

“Billy,” the boy supplied without hesitation. “Private Billy Rawlings.”

“Don't think that the only way you can make a difference in this war is by following everyone else to the front, Billy,” Thomas murmured sincerely, reaching out to pat the boys shoulder gently. “What you do here is no less important, no less valuable.”

That earned him a beaming smile from the boy whose expression had fallen significantly throughout the course of his earlier statement until he wasn’t quite frowning but it was very close and had been struggling to recover ever since.

“You should probably get back to your duties,” Thomas murmured, holding his haversack still with his stump whilst undoing the simple fastening with his hand. One it was open he pulled out his greatcoat and placed it on the chair before reaching in for his threadbare blanket. “I’m sure I can find my way round by myself.”

Continuing to unpack his things he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the boy had heeded his instructions, leaving him alone and once everything was either on the bedside table, the chair or stored underneath the bed inside the wooden crate Thomas allowed himself the luxury of lying down on top of the sheets, his boots resting on the metal bar at the foot of the bed. Sighing deeply he leant back against the thin pillow he'd been given and studied the canvas ceiling high above him, finding an oddly shaped stain and a careful patch almost directly above his head.

“That had better not leak…”

After lying there for a good half an hour, during which time someone entered and exited the main part of the tent without speaking to him, he decided he should probably familiarise himself with the layout of the hospital and its wards and headed back inside the building. It was a pretty simple and logical set up, from where the operating theatre was in relation to the wards to the way the laundry was rotated to the order in which people ate their meals and after only a few brief questions with various nurses and orderlies Thomas had gotten his head around most of the information he would need in order to complete the duties of _Head Orderly_.

Thanking the nurse who had just finished carefully explaining the way the storage cupboard was organised he slipped out of the main entrance of the hospital, planning on having a cigarette in the little alleyway between the hospital and the next building when he literally bumped into a young nurse who was hurrying towards the building not looking where she was going as she was still pinning her cap in place, the force of the collision sending her falling back onto the ground with a startled cry.

“Would you watch where yo…Thomas?!” her indignant cry transformed into one of delight as she peered up at him with a pair of very familiar eyes. “It is you, isn't it?”

He couldn't believe it.

Of all the nurses he could possibly have bumped into it just had to be...

“Lady Sybil,” he murmured, offering her his good hand and helping her back to her feet when she accepted, placing her delicate hand in his. “I apologise for knocki–”

“Oh!” she gasped loudly, looking ashamed of herself even as she continued to hold onto his hand even after she was back on her feet. “No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped like that. I was as much at fault for not looking where I was going.”

Her eyes flickered across his face, blatantly cataloguing every scar she could see, before her gaze dropped to where his injured arm was curled around his side.

He was unprepared for the lack of pity and disgust he saw in her eyes when she finally met his gaze once more. Instead she gazed up at him with an expression of deep sympathy and genuine concern, her blue eyes actually showing signs of tears.

“I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“No, Lady Sybil, you didn’t,” Thomas immediately reassured her. He attempted to remove his hand from hers but she held on tight, offering him a stunning smile when he frowned softly down at her. “I will need my hand back at some point, my lady.”

“I'm just so relieved to see you looking so well,” she all but gushed, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze before finally letting go so that she could tend to her uniform, smoothing off the dirt and getting rid of the creases. “When Mama said you'd been wounded I must admit I envisioned the worst possible scenarios and, with no information to go on, I'm afraid I don't know what I was expecting. I knew it couldn't be too bad, though, or Major Clarkson would never have agreed to having you here.”

“Major Clarkson seemed to be under the impression that my injuries were minor,” Thomas found himself muttering, his hand searching for his packet of cigarettes in one of his tunic pockets. A small hand took them from him after a long moment where he'd struggled to retrieve one from the cardboard box, knocking one out easily and handing it to him. He nodded his thanks as he pulled out his lighter, acquired from a soldier who hadn’t needed it anymore after being shot in the head. “Probably thought I'd got myself wounded one purpose just so I'd get sent back to Blighty…”

“I'm sure no one thought anything of the sort,” she protested sincerely as she tucked his packet of cigarettes back in his pocket. Then, much to his shock, she retrieved an almost identical packet from her own pocket and carefully withdrew one, holding it between her fingers before gesturing to his lighter. “You couldn't be a dear, could you? Only I ran out of matches last night and haven’t been able to get hold of any…”

Blinking in genuine surprise Thomas slowly acquiesced to her request, holding the reasonably sized flame his lighter produced to the end of her cigarette. Offering him a bright smile she murmured a soft ‘ _thank you_ ’ before inhaling deeply, holding the smoke in her lungs for a long moment before blowing it out to the side.

“You won't tell on me, will you? If you see anyone from the house?” she pleaded with him, her smile becoming somewhat sheepish as she blinked up at him. “Because Papa would murder me if he knew, not to mention Mama, but I needed something to take the edge off…well…everything…and one of the other nurses suggested smoking.”

Thomas understood.

He understood all too well.

“You're secret is safe with me, Lady Sybil.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, sagging with relief as she offered him a beaming smile as the two of them inhaled in perfect timing with each other. “And I think we should probably dispense with all that nonsense. It’s Nurse Crawley, now, or just Sybil.”

To say he was surprised by the familiarity she had chosen to permit between them was an understatement, his mind struggling to wrap around the fact that one of his previous employers had just granted him express permission to use her given name should he desire. He could easily imagine what Mr Carson would say if he knew.

As if taking tea with the future Earl of Grantham hadn't been unusual enough…

“I suppose I should probably be getting on,” Sybil eventually murmured after finishing her cigarette, dropping the butt to the ground and crushing it beneath her heel in a most unfeminine move. Someone would sweep it up later during rounds. She paused before heading inside, staring at his arm with a frown. “Thomas, would you like me to sew your new stripes on for you? I assume you've been given them?”

“I couldn't ask you to do that…”

“Nonsense. We always end up doing repairs and things when we're on night duty anyway. Just bring your jacket over to me before you go to bed and it'll be ready for you to wear come the morning,” she ordered in her most authoritative voice, one which anyone would struggle to argue against let alone someone who had once worked for her. “I can't promise my stitches will be quite as neat as they should be. It's rather different to needlepoint, after all, but far more useful. Don't you think?”

He was at a loss for words following her offer, unfamiliar with having acts of kindness offered to him, but she didn’t seem upset to only receive a hesitant smile and a soft murmur of thanks in response. If anything she smiled even brighter than before offering him a cheerful wave and hurrying in through the main entrance.

Given that he’d seen all there was to see in the hospital for now he decided to head up to the house in order to get what was undoubtedly going to be an uncomfortable reunion with his old colleagues. He couldn’t imagine the likes of Mr Carson or Mr Bates reacting to his injuries with sympathy. It was far more likely that they’d believe that he’d finally received an appropriate punishment he deserved for his past crimes.

Taking the familiar path it took him no time at all to reach the servants courtyard where he had hid many a time, smoking a cigarette as he avoided Mr Carson or Mrs Hughes for whatever reason. It hadn’t changed much since he’d been away.

Pulling his cap down as much as he could get away with he made his way across to the servants entrance and rang the bell, clasping hold of his stump behind his back just as the door was pulled open to reveal an unfamiliar face. She was a redhead, like Gwen had been, but that was where the similarities ended as this new girl had a thin face and a shrewd expression, frowning out at him with obvious disapproval.

“Yes?”

Even her voice was sharper than Gwen’s had been.

“Could you let Miss O’Brien know that there's someone who wishes to see her?”

He thought his words had been perfectly clear but apparently not as she frowned even harder, as though in disbelief, her eyes giving him a quick once over.

“ _Miss O’Brien_?”

“Yes, I believe that's what I said.”

“Oh…” she mumbled, still frowning unattractively. “Well…wait here…”

It was his turn to frown as the door was slammed rather rudely in his face, taking a step back automatically so as not to risk getting struck. Backing up a few paces he perched on the end of the large wooden table he had sat at on many occasions, usually doing a job deemed to dirty to do inside like oiling the family clocks.

He had just succeeded in lighting a cigarette, almost destroying the packet in the process, when the door opened once more to allow his only friend to step outside.

“So it is you,” she breathed out, staring across the open space at the good side of his face which he had been careful to leave turned towards the door so that his scars would be hidden for a little longer. “Ethel thought I must have a soldier fancy man.”

Thomas snorted.

“She the new maid?”

“Yes. She's a soppy sort,” Miss O’Brien confirmed, moving to lean against the table beside him. “So, tell me, was Dr Clarkson thrilled to have your services?”

“Its Major Clarkson now and no, not really,” he answered with half a shrug so as not to draw attention to his bad shoulder just yet. “But that's not really a surprise, is it?”

“What about your blighty?”

Thomas sighed deeply.

“Technically that should be blighties…”

“What do you mean?” Miss O’Brien asked slowly with a confused frown.

“I mean…” he muttered softly, deciding that his best option was to once again get it over and with as quickly as possible. He held the cigarette between his lips as he pushed away from the table, turning to face her as he removed his cap. “…this.”

“My God!”

Miss O’Brien made no attempt to hide her horror at the sight before her.

“Yes, it's not a pretty sight, I'll admit…” Thomas sighed in response after he’d pulled his cap back on, finishing the cigarette quickly. “It’s not as bad as it was, though.”

“I…I had no idea…” she mumbled, her voice trembling as she reached out in a quickly aborted motion to touch his arm. “When you said you were out of the war I thought…”

She thought he'd done something on purpose.

“I think quite a few people will have thought exactly the same thing you did,” he pointed out, dropping the butt of his cigarette to the floor and stamping on it. “I should get going…”

“Why don't you come in for a bit? Unless you need to get back…” she suggested hesitantly, smiling when he admitted that he was at a bit of a loose end for the moment. “Then come inside. They’ll all be glad to see you and I'm sure Mrs Patmore will make you a cup of tea.”

Thomas didn't know if _glad_ was the correct emotion to be anticipating as he followed her inside, reluctantly pulling off his cap as manners dictated but brushing his hair forewords and across so as to hide the scars around his clouded eye. He was very much aware of the hall boys staring at him as he followed his friend along to the servants hall where, as per usual, everyone seemed to have gathered for a cup of tea during the afternoon lull.

“Thomas!” Daisy gasped in shock when she caught sight of him in the doorway, almost dropping the plate of biscuits she'd been placing in the centre of the table. For once no one reached out to snag the last piece of shortbread, their attention fixed firmly on him as he stepped into the room with his head held pompously high, falling back on old habits in order to hide how nervous he truly was in regards to their reactions. “When did you get back?”

“This morning,” he answered automatically, turning his head so as to take in their various reactions to his injuries. “I've been transferred to work at the cottage hospital.”

It was easy to see that they were all shocked, sickened even, by the scars they were able to see but there was significantly less pity in their gazes than he was getting used to receiving.

Obviously he'd been right about them thinking, even if it was only for a fraction of a second, that he deserved everything what had happened to him in exchange for everything that he had done to them over the years. Only the unfamiliar faces gazed upon him with sympathy.

He frowned when he realised which faces were missing from the group.

“Where's William?”

“Training for the army,” Daisy answered proudly as she wiped down the table with a rag and Thomas was unable to stop himself from responding exactly how they expected him to,

“I thought he might've died for love of you.”

“Don't be nasty, not as soon as you're back…” Daisy pleaded with him softly, turning to face him with a deep frown of confusion marring her forehead. “What happened to your face?”

“Daisy!”

“It's all right, Miss O’Brien,” Thomas sighed, stopping his friend before she could jump down on the girl who had as per usual been the one to say what everyone was thinking. “No harm in being curious. And in answer to your question, Daisy, the war happened to my face.”

If anything his answer made Daisy frown all the harder.

“But I thought you were in the medical corps,” she muttered accusingly, her hands fluttering in front of her. “Not the real army. How'd you get wounded if you were just at a hospital?”

“Daisy!”

This time it was Mrs Hughes who had come to his defence, shooting the young kitchen maid a shocked look which caused the young girl to duck her head, her cheeks flushing brightly.

“I wasn't stationed at a hospital,” Thomas answered softly, drawing everyone's attention back to him as he absentmindedly used his stump to rub at the bottom of his chin. Someone gasped. “I was a stretcher bearer. We carried wounded back and forth from the front line to the ambulance station. First time I ever saw a field hospital was after I'd been injured.”

“Ethel?”

There was a flurry of movement as everyone rose from their seats in response to the arrival of Mr Carson, the butler barely glancing towards Thomas as he forced his way past him before coming to a halt facing the flustered young maid. It could have been played off as an accident that he'd effectively turned his back on Thomas but the younger man knew better.

This was nothing more than a blatant snub.

“Get ready to help with the luggage,” Mr Carson ordered calmly, nodding as Ethel responded by instantly moving away from the table. “They're nearly back with Sir Richard.”

“We've got a visitor, Mr Carson,” Miss O'Brien announced, gesturing towards Thomas as she tried to force the butler to correct his behaviour by politely acknowledging his presence.

Thomas could have told her it wouldn't work.

“I've seen him.”

He couldn't help but flinch ever so slightly in response to the unconcealed disdain in the older man’s voice despite the fact that this was just the sort of response he'd been expecting from Mr Carson, glancing away from the butler who calmly followed Ethel out of the room without giving anyone a backward glance and instead smiling across at Anna’s familiar face.

“Where's Mr Bates?” he asked as he noticed another face that was missing. “Don't tell me he's gone into the army too? Because I know for a fact they don't want cripples out there...”

Anna’s expression went from mildly uncomfortable to flushed with anger in a matter of seconds, clueing Thomas in to the fact that his attempt at lightening the situation by insinuating that it was _him_ that they didn't want the front any more hadn't worked.

“Gone,” Miss O'Brien answered quickly. “Replaced by Mr Lang.”

There was no doubt in Thomas’ mind when he met the haunted gaze of the man she'd calmly indicated that the man standing before him had seen the same horrors he had.

“Where did you serve?”

The question seemed to take Mr Lang, along with everyone else, by surprise.

“Neuve Chapelle,” the older man finally answered softly, a trembling hand rising to tug at his ear lobe even as his gaze became less and less focused. “Loos. And then the Somme.”

Thomas nodded.

“Loos…” he sighed, shaking his head ruefully as the older blinked across at him. “What a bleeding mess that was and yet it pales in comparison to the Somme, don't you think?”

“Yes, although I wasn't there for long before…” Lang trailed off, shifting uncomfortably as he looked around at the people blatantly watching them as they interacted. “…I was…um…”

“You're not the first case of shell-shock I've come across and I doubt you'll be the last,” Thomas murmured reassuringly, surprising everyone who had known him before the war by dropping his cap onto the table and offering the trembling man his hand. They shook. “Did you know that something like 40% of the total number of casualties from the Somme were cases of shell-shock? I read an article about it a while ago. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

The hand clasped in his began to shake almost violently even as Mr Lang offered him a tearful smile full of gratitude, ducking his head ever so slightly before finally letting go of Thomas’ hand and returning to his seat at the table and the shirt he had been mending.

Turning to face Miss O'Brien he offered his friend a smile in response to her grateful look, Mrs Hughes wearing something similar on her own face where she stood behind her.

“So where's this cup of tea you promised me?”

 

 

 ** **A/N** ** I was planning of writing a little bit more than this but my mind wouldn't let me, it wanted the chapter to finish here and so it shall. I did quite a bit of research into how cases of shell-shock were treated and I like to think that someone like Thomas would have understood and been sympathetic, given what he suffered through, but I'm sorry if he seems a little bit OOC to some of you. Comments/Suggestions welcome. X


	7. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

 

**Chapter Seven; England, 1917**

_It's funny, how the friendships that are formed during the most difficult circumstances can more often than not be proven to be the most rewarding ones, not mention the most loyal._

_I was never gifted when it came to the ability to make friends._

_I always struggled, I suppose the easiest way to explain it is to say that I tried to hard and when that didn't work, when they still shunned me, I hid my embarrassment behind a mask._

_Perhaps this is why one of my few lifelong friendships began without me realising it._

_In the midst of war with the world turned on its head I found myself becoming closer to someone I never would have been allowed to were the world in its right mind, acting as both a shoulder to cry on when things were tough and willing receptacle for joyous exclamations._

_I never expected to find someone who understood me and accepted everything about me._

_I never expected to have a friend I could rely on above everything else._

_And yet that is exactly what I had._

_It's funny, how the friendships that are formed during the most difficult circumstances can more often than not be proven to be the most rewarding ones, not mention the most loyal._

_~ * ~_

In the two weeks since his arrival at the hospital Thomas had found himself at the centre of a campaign orchestrated by Sybil and designed to ensure the friendship and loyalty of her fellow nurses and the orderlies he was in charge of. She had singlehandedly convinced each of them to give him a chance, encouraged them to assist him in finding out the best ways for him to complete his duties whilst taking his stump and partial blindness into condition, all the while ensuring that Thomas was either oblivious to her meddling or in a position where he couldn't refuse.

“You are an absolute nightmare,” Thomas announced as he dropped down onto the stone wall beside her after being shooed out of the ward by one of the nurses who had caught him trying to do the tea round by himself despite the decision having made that a) it was too difficult for him to do it one handed and b) it was _beneath him_ as Head Orderly. Thomas agreed, silently, that it was beneath him but it was still part of his duties and he was happy to complete them. Or would have been had the decision not been taken from him. “And I wouldn't be surprised if you took over the world one day, Nurse Crawley. Hell, we should just send you over to sort out the bloody Kaiser. With you working away the war would be over in a couple of days at the most.”

Giggling happily she offered him her packet of cigarettes and he gladly took one.

“I am my mother’s daughter,” she announced happily, leaning over to help him light the cigarette with the glowing tip of her own. It was quite amazing how well she had adapted to the “ _real”_ world. “She taught us how to _manoeuvre_ things to suit our own aims although admittedly at the time she was talking about possible suitors.”

“Is that how you managed to get a revolutionary chauffeur to fall in love with you?”

It had taken him all of three conversations to figure out that Sybil Crawley was madly in love with Tom Branson although she still persisted in denying this fact. Given the pining looks that the young Irishman sent her way whenever he was sent to collect her Thomas was pretty sure that her feelings were definitely reciprocated.

“I did nothing of the sort!” Sybil protested quite predictably, her cheeks flushing. “And he's not in love with me…I assure you, Thomas, that you are mistaken.”

Thomas let out a huff of disbelief.

He wasn't the only one who could see the romance blossoming painfully slowly between the two of them, most of the other nurses thought it was thoroughly romantic and gossiped about Sybil's “ _struggle with class restrictions_ ” as often as they could. Even the orderlies had been known to discuss them on occasion, mostly discussing that they could understand why Tom had fallen in love with Nurse Crawley and what a lucky sod he was for “ _catching a peach of a girl like her.”_

“Sybil, you can deny your own feelings as much as you want,” Thomas muttered. “Not that I'll believe you, mind, but don't bother denying his when he makes no attempt to conceal the feelings he has for you. Tom Branson is in love with you.”

Now it was Sybil's turn to huff loudly, swinging her shapely legs back and forth so that her shoes struck the wall they were sat upon with a series of loud _cracks_!

Thomas hadn’t worked for the family long enough to have seen the Crawley sisters any younger than their teenage years but he had an idea that this was the same sort of pout he would have seen had he met Sybil when she was a young child, her bottom lip protruding as a crease formed between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

“Careful, or the wind will change and your face will be stuck like that,” Thomas chuckled, automatically repeating the words his own mother had intoned down at him when he'd been a young child throwing a tantrum. Of course this only caused her frown to deepen even further. “Is it really so bad that he returns your feelings?”

“It is when nothing can come of it,” Sybil sighed sadly, her expression falling into one of hopelessness. “I didn't intentionally _lead him on_ or whatever you want to call it…”

Thomas never thought she had.

“I do like him,” she admitted out loud. “He treated me like a person when everyone else still treated me like a child. He encouraged me to make my own decisions.”

Thomas could still remember the day she'd appeared at dinner dressed in her _Paul Poiret_ inspired harem pants, the blue outfit so shocking the Dowager Countess had nearly choked. Finding out that Tom Branson had been to the one to encourage her o choose a design that would please her rather than her mother had come as nothing of a surprise to those downstairs as by then he’d already proven to be quite the _radical_.

“He speaks his mind and has always encouraged me to do the same. And he knows what he wants to do with his future.” Sybil continued, her voice getting steadily louder until she reached her normal volume once more. “Is it any wonder that…”

“That you fell in love with him?” Thomas finished for her softly as he dropped the butt of his cigarette down to join the remains of hers on the ground. “No, not really.”

“He…” Sybil broke off, casting her eyes around to make sure she was alone before admitting something to her newest friend that she hadn't admitted to anyone else. “He confessed his feelings for me when he dropped me off to begin my training as a nurse. I tried to stop him, I wasn't ready to hear the words, you see? But there's no discouraging him when he sets his mind to something. He told me to bet on him. He…he promised to _devote every waking minute to my happiness._ ”

Thomas could see how much the words had both excited and terrified her and to be honest he couldn't blame her. If anyone had ever said such a thing to him he would have been as completely overwhelmed as she currently appeared to be.

“I'm ashamed to say I tried to, well, brush him off isn't the right phrase but I can't think of a more appropriate one to use right now,” she admitted, dropping her eyes as she fiddled with her apron. “He was so hurt. I could tell and that was the last thing I wanted but, honestly, how could anything ever work between us? My father would never allow it, not just because of our differences in station but because of his faith. And can you imagine my mother’s reaction? It's doomed to failure before it begins.”

Thomas chuckled sadly.

“I can certainly understand feeling like that,” he admitted seriously, pulling out his own packet of cigarettes so as to awkwardly spark up another one for each of them. This was a conversation that needed some sort of a comforting distraction. “I…I suppose you know…I suppose you’ve heard about me…about what I am…?”

“That you're a…”

Once again she allowed her voice to trail off so that she could accept the cigarette that he offered her whilst also checking to make sure that they were still completely alone.

It wouldn't do for them to be overheard just then.

“…homosexual?”

He nodded, any sort of a verbal confirmation lodging itself in his throat.

After so many years of painstakingly making sure that such a subject was never mentioned in public openly discussing his _peculiar sexuality_ as he'd once heard it referred to was odd to say the least. Before this he’d only ever hinted to it in private.

“Because of my… _preferences_ …every single relationship I have ever entered was doomed to failure from the start but that never stopped me from trying,” he admitted softly, faces flickering in the back of his mind as he remembered each and every one of the _relationships_ he mentioned. It still surprising how many there had been over the years. “Does this mean I should content myself to a life alone and unloved?”

“No!”

It warmed his heart to hear the genuine conviction in her voice.

“So I should take a chance despite the impossible situation I will always find myself in? I should ignore the fact that everyone I know would be against me?” he enquired almost teasingly, shooting her a smile when she blinked in confusion. Perhaps she'd finally come to her senses. “Lady Sybil, I never took you to be a hypocrite…”

For a long moment she gaped at him open mouthed before she flushed, offered him an embarrassed smile and focused her attention on the cigarette held in her hand.

“Point taken, Mr Barrow,” she finally murmured, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear before blowing out a long stream to smoke. “Perhaps…perhaps we should just wait and see what the future brings for both of us? How does that sound?”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea, although right now I have a horrible feeling that our future lies in emptying bedpans and changing dirty dressings…” Thomas sighed deeply as Beth, the youngest nurse at the hospital who reminded him of Flora with her naïve enthusiasm and clumsy nature hurried towards them. “Yes?”

“Nurse Crawley is needed by her young man and Major Clarkson asks if you'd be so kind as to perform a quick inspection of the wards, Sergeant Barrow,” she blurted out breathlessly, pressing a hand to her heart as she gazed down at them with overly wide eyes. “One of patients was caught hiding a flask of alcohol in his things!”

She sounded so scandalised that Thomas couldn't help but smirk as he nodded, pushing himself up off of the wall whilst discarding what remained of his cigarette. Beside him Sybil did the same, taking the time to smooth out the creases in her skirt and straightening her cap once she was back on her feet before hurrying inside.

Quite notably she didn't protest Tom being referred to as her _young man_ this time.

Obviously their conversation had had the desired effect.

Upon entering the ward Thomas was handed the hip-flask which was indeed full of whiskey, rather nice whiskey by the smell of it, and the offending patient was pointed out to him. It was a young Captain who had lost both his legs from below the knee to an explosion only to have the rest of his legs amputated upon return to England due to gangrene. He’d been struggling with the pain, his body fighting the morphine.

“I'll handle this,” he reassured the gaggle of nurses before moving to crouch down beside the Captains bedside. “Sir, I must remind you that alcohol is not permitted on the wards. However I understand that sometimes a little pick-me-up is necessary for people like us,” he muttered softly, raising his stump in order to get his point across to the young man who looked completely devastated. “Might I suggest either a better hiding place for your hip-flask or a less conspicuous vessel for your illicit libations?”

For a long moment the Captain merely blinked in surprise before offering Thomas a smile, accepting the hip-flask and hiding under his covers with a murmur of thanks.

“Please remember what we have discussed in future, sir,” Thomas announced firmly as he rose to his feet, putting on a show of bring stern for the nurses and the other patients, most of whom had no cause to require a comforting drink as their injuries were relatively minor. “Nurse? I shall be conducting a thorough kit inspection now.”

“Very good, Sergeant Barrow.”

Some contraband items he left alone with a quiet warning if they weren't doing any harm, others he made a show of confiscating so that he was seen to be doing his job. That and in most cases the ones he took away were either dangerous for the patient in question or inappropriate for them to have such items in their possession.

One man had somehow managed to get hold of a pound of opium!

Thomas was wrapping his lecture on the seriousness of the man’s actions and preparing to take the offending item to Major Clarkson when Sybil hurried into the ward followed by Tom Branson who, rather than looking pleased wore a look of frustration. Mrs Crawley, a frequent volunteer at the hospital which was both a blessing and a curse, followed them in a much more sedate pace with an armful of blankets which she immediately began handing out to patients who looked cold.

“I can't possibly come!” Sybil protested loudly, choosing a patient at random and making a show of thoroughly checking his vitals. “Really, Mama is incorrigible!”

“It's not poor Branson's fault,” Mrs Crawley pointed out, confirming the fact that she'd obviously heard most of their conversation before they'd entered the room.

“But what is the point of Mama's soirees?” Sybil demanded, still refusing to look back at either Tom or Mrs Crawley as she checked on another man. “What are they for?”

“Well, I'm going out for dinner tonight and I'm glad,” Mrs Crawley announced grandly, straightening up from tucking a blanket around the legs of a painfully young officer who smiled up at her sleepily through the haze of morphine currently clouding his mind. She always had a soft spot for the quiet ones. “Is that wrong?”

Personally Thomas though that a night away from the hospital sounded like a fantastic idea considering he hadn’t managed to get a proper night off yet.

“Thomas,” Mrs Crawley called out having spotted him where he was stood, still holding the offending parcel of opium in his hand. “You can cover for Nurse Crawley, can't you?”

He was going to say no until he saw the look of desperation Sybil shot him and his old mischievous self reappeared, prompting him to wink across at her with a smirk.

“I can.”

“I'll get you back for this, Thomas,” Sybil muttered in his ear as she stormed past him to report the change of plans to Clarkson and Matron Stanley. “Just you wait…”

Thomas chuckled, bouncing the parcel in his hand like he would a cricket ball before turning serious once more and returning his gaze to the officer the offending parcel had previously belonged to. At least the man had the decency to look embarrassed and ashamed. Alcohol to combat the pain was one thing but mind altering drugs?

They were another matter entirely.

“I shall be reporting this to Major Clarkson so prepare yourself for another even more detailed lecture about the dangers of opioids than the one I just gave you,” he informed the officer, gesturing towards him with the parcel before turning away so as to address the entire ward. “If you require medication for your pain you ask for it, understood? Do not let me catch _anyone_ with anything of this nature again.”

It was a testament to the power and respect that he had as the Head Orderly that a roomful of officers murmured their agreement with only the slightest hesitation.

“So you're back, then,” Tom muttered, his tone unusually hostile and heavy with the accusation that he didn't think Thomas should be there even as he followed the taller man out of the unusually quiet ward and into the deserted hallway. “Safe and sound.”

Thomas snorted, using his stump to push back his hair as he made his way towards Major Clarkson’s office in order to allow the chauffeur to see the scars on his face.

It was becoming easier for him to display them as time passed and they began to heal, the redness fading to a vivid pink which would one day become only a slightly darker colour than his natural skin tone. It helped that no one at the hospital stared at him, so used to war injuries as they were. He still made sure to cover them up as much as he could whenever he ventured into the village as people there did stare.

“That's not how I'd put it but, yes, I am back,” he responded, keeping his head up proudly even as Tom flinched. “Major Clarkson's found me a place and I'm grateful.”

As he approached the door to Major Clarkson’s office it swung open and Sybil emerged, glaring up at him when she spotted him and actually going so far as to smack his shoulder with the back of her hand. Thomas only laughed in response.

“I hope you realise that the next time you want me to cover for you, Thomas Barrow, I shall be telling you to get stuffed,” she announced and Thomas enjoyed the look of shock Tom was suddenly sporting as he heard Sybil using one of the phrases she'd picked up from her fellow nurses. So much for the perfect lady… “If I could get away with it I would drag you along tonight so that you’d be forced to suffer alongside me.”

“I'm sure it won't be so bad,” he reassured her despite knowledge to contrary, already picturing the stilted dinner conversation, the restrictive clothing and suggestions that she'd be better off finding a husband than working herself to death in the hospital. She would hate every minute of her evening. “Personally I'd be glad of a night off.”

Sybil huffed loudly.

“Could you give Lieutenant Courtenay his pills?” she requested suddenly, clicking her fingers as the thought came to her suddenly. “I was supposed to special him tonight, you see, so I’m afraid you'll have to keep an eye on him on my behalf, Thomas.

“Of course I can,” he responded, placing the parcel of opium in the crook of his elbow and tucked his stump up to keep it in place as he knocked on Major Clarkson’s door loudly and clearly. “I'd be glad to. I'll even use my good eye to do it.”

Her response was to stick her tongue out at him somewhat childishly before spinning away and storming out towards the automobile, followed by the stunned chauffeur.

Upon receiving permission to enter Thomas stood before his commanding officers desk and gave a carefully structured report of his various discoveries, beginning with the “confiscated” alcohol and ending with the parcel of opium. Major Clarkson appeared to be of a similar mind to him regarding the alcohol, murmuring that as long as it didn't become an addiction or impede his recovery it could be overlooked.

When it came to the opium, however, Thomas had never seen him more vexed.

The patient in question was brought before him in a wheelchair and was subjected to the lecture Thomas had forewarned him about, during which he was forced to admit that he had become addicted to opium as a boy soldier during the _Second Boer War_. For a time he had managed the addiction, slowly weaning himself off of it during peace time, but had admitted that it had become worse than ever since he’d been posted to the front line in 1914. Major Clarkson had removed him from the main ward immediately, placing him in a private room under round the clock observation.

Collecting Lieutenant Courtenay's pills from the dispensary Thomas made his way to the young officers beside, the thick bandages and dressing covering his eyes making it difficult to tell if he was sleeping or not. From what Thomas had heard the young Lieutenant had been caught in a gas attack and had taken the time to help a soldier who was panicking to get his gas mask on before worrying about himself.

The damage was said to be severe.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Courtenay,” he spoke clearly, resting his hand on the officers shoulder as the visually impaired man jumped in surprise. Thomas didn't think he'd been asleep, his body language was too alert. He’d probably just been daydreaming. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but it's time for your pills.”

“Ah,” he murmured softly, his voice deep as he pushed himself up into a sitting position on the narrow bed. Thomas suspected that underneath the bandages the young officer was quite handsome, if the plump lips and striking jawline were any indication. He wondered if Courtenay’s cheekbones would be as striking. “Of course.”

His hair was brown and spilled around the top of the bandages, curling at the ends, and his body was trim and fit in a way that only an active life outside could produce. A steady hand accepted first the little white pills and then the glass of water, the tips of his fingers brushing against the back of Thomas’ hand which sent an alarming jolt of pleasure coursing down his spine as his cheeks flushed with unexpected warmth.

“Thank you,” Lieutenant Courtenay murmured as Thomas returned the glass of water to the wooden locker beside his bed. “I thought I was to be cared for by the nurse with the crackle in her voice today? At least that's what she told me earlier on.”

“Nurse Crawley has been called away on a family matter,” Thomas answered, guiding the officer back down onto his pillow and sorting out his blankets. “She won't be back until tomorrow so she asked me to look after you. Is there anything I can get you?”

“A new pair of eyes?”

Underneath the soft chuckle which had accompanied his request Thomas could read the genuine fear and pain in the wounded officer’s voice and, instinctively, he reached out to give the hand nearest to him a comforting squeeze.

Lieutenant Courtenay jumped ever slightly before squeezing back.

“I wish I could,” Thomas murmured. “Best I can offer is a cup of tea and a biscuit.”

Lieutenant Courtenay smiled sadly.

“A cup of tea and a biscuit would be greatly appreciated. Thank you…?”

“Barrow,” Thomas supplied his name. “Sergeant Barrow. I'm the Head Orderly.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Barrow.”

Thomas knew he was in trouble when his stomach did a little flip after hearing the way the well-spoken officer pronounced his surname, rolling the ‘r’s ever so slightly as his plump lips contorted to form the simple word.

If he ever discovered Thomas’ given name he'd be in serious trouble.

This was the first time he'd felt the stirrings of genuine attraction since he'd had his heart broken by Phillip, the Duke of Crowborough, who had played him for a fool.

Enlisting the help of one of the orderlies to help him make the tea he instructed the younger man to complete the tea round, knowing he’d be stopped if he tried just like earlier, whilst he delivered Lieutenant Courtenay's personally, carefully balancing one of the nicer biscuits from the secret tin on the edge of the saucer.

“Tea,” he announced once he'd reached the officers bed. Moving slowly he placed the cup and saucer into the steady hands held out towards him. “There's a biscuit for you as well, on the saucer, so be careful you don't catch it when you put your cup down.”

“You're trusting me to drink this by myself?” Lieutenant Courtenay enquired.

“It's your eyes that have been hurt, sir, not your mind or your hands,” Thomas pointed out, watching as Courtenay’s fingers searched for the biscuit. It was eaten swiftly, therefore eliminating the problems it could have caused later on. “I imagine you've had a fair few cups of tea in your lifetime so you know how not to spill it on yourself.”

“And if I do?”

“Then we’ll get you cleaned up and you'll try again next time,” Thomas answered, thinking back to how Flora had treated him when she'd taken over his care. There’d been no mollycoddling, that was for sure. “Every man is entitled to a bit of independence, no matter the circumstances he finds himself in, don't you think?”

“…thank you. I mean that. It’s been rather tiring having to rely on other people so much.”

He didn't spill a single drop.

Thomas found the time between his normal duties to check up on Lieutenant Courtenay, each time feeling the same flutter in his stomach as he found himself more and more attracted to the wounded man the more they talked.

He'd had very little contact with him before now which explained why this attraction was only now beginning to manifest.

“What about you, sir?” he enquired softly as he helped the nurses and orderlies clean up following the patients evening meal, during which he'd heard the entire life story of the officer in the bed next to Lieutenant Courtenay, including his family heritage. It had been rather a dull conversation to say the least. “What did you do before the war started?”

“I was up at Oxford,” Lieutenant Courtenay answered without hesitation. “But I only ever planned to farm. Farm. And shoot. And hunt. And fish. And everything I'll never do again.”

Oh, Thomas knew that feeling of hopelessness all too well and the self-pity it produced.

“You don't know that, sir,” he murmured, attempting to be both comforting and reassuring without become too familiar. “We've had cases of gas-blindness wearing off.”

“Rare cases, and much sooner than this,” the young officer snorted almost angrily. “It doesn't help me to be lied to, you know. I'm finished. And I'd rather face it than dodge it.”

Thomas sighed sadly.

“I'd better go…”

He knew there would be no talking to the young officer in his current mood and so he decided to excuse himself and attempt to reassure the wounded man later on.

What he'd said was the truth, gas blindness had been known to wear off.

Unfortunately what Lieutenant Courtenay had said was also true, in that most of those cases had already begun to show signs of improvement long before this stage of treatment.

Thomas was distracted from his thoughts by one of the patients on the far side of the room retching loudly, rolling over and heaving the contents of his stomach up onto the floor.

“Bloody hell…coming, sir, just stay calm for me…”

 

 **A/N** This chapter actually stuck to my original plan with only a few extra bits making their way in to give it some more action here and there. I'm still surprised by the apparent interest given that I just started it in order to clear the idea out of my head. Lol. Let me know what you think and suggestions are always welcome as I only have a rough plan for this story which, yeah, I'll try and stick to but it'll likely change quite a bit. X

A/N2 Thank you propriety_is_not_a_priority for pointing out that I'd gotten the Duck of Crowborough's names wrong. Have now corrected this little mistake. x


	8. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Eight; England, 1917**

_It's funny, how the love of another human being can become the most important thing in the entire world, how everything else pales into comparison when compared with their smiles._

_True love, not some passing fancy but true, honest gut wrenching and heart-breaking love. The kind that sneaks up on some people unexpectedly whilst others are completely blindsided by it, knocking their world off kilter as the other half of their soul arrives._

_Sometimes it's hard to find, hope of love masking the truth leading to false love, filled with pain and heartbreak of a completely different sort. Sadly this is often more common, at least to begin with, as it's often a difficult process, finding the perfect match of your own soul._

_Particularly when society damned you for loving that which you cannot have._

_Denying love is almost as painful as suffering through the tumult of false love, a little piece of you dying every time you force yourself to ignore what you believe you cannot have._

_Thankfully there are people in the world who are living embodiments of Eros himself, people who see the truth for what it really is and will do anything to ensure that others succeed in capturing the happiness that everyone deserves. More often than not theirs is a thankless task although, in this particular case, their work led to a lifelong friendship built on trust._

_It's funny, how the love of another human being can become the most important thing in the entire world, how everything else pales into comparison when compared with their smiles._

~ * ~ * ~

“You couldn't be a dear and read this letter to me before you go, could you?” Lieutenant Courtenay enquired softly once Thomas had finished replacing the young officer’s glass of water beside his bed following his morning dose of pills. “I have some concerns about the contents of this letter and I’d rather you read it than a nurse…”

“Of course,” Thomas agreed instantly, perching on the edge the narrow bed beside the Lieutenant Courtenay’s and taking the still sealed envelope from the other man’s trembling fingers. “Ah, right, just give me a second to get this open…”

Holding the envelope against his thigh with his stump Thomas was finally able to tear open the envelope, silently wishing for one of Lord Grantham’s letter openers, and was able to retrieve the thin sheet of nearly translucent paper.

 _“My Dear Edward,”_ he began to read aloud, noting how the young Officer remained uncomfortably stiff against his pillows when most men would have already been relaxing back to listen to every little detail described in the contents of their letter. _“Your father and I were most relieved to hear that your condition has improved enough for you to be returned to England. It is a shame you were not given a place in a hospital closer to home. Downton is simply too far away for us to visit.”_

Thomas wasn't sure what to think about that.

They'd had parents, wives and children travel from all over the country, even as far away as Cornwall, to visit with their injured loved ones even if only for an hour or two. Lieutenant Courtenay said nothing, however, and so Thomas continued.

_“Your favourite roses came in first at the village fair. Elvira sends her love. She and Jack are to be married in the spring, as you know, and it would be wonderful if you could travel down for the wedding. We understand if that is not possible, however, as you must be having a difficult time adjusting to the loss of your sight.”_

Thomas paused.

How could anyone be so callus when referring to such a sensitive subject?

Even he, a “nasty piece of work” wouldn't have been so…unnecessarily cruel…

“…who's Elvira?”

“The girl I was supposed to marry, before all of this bloody mess started,” Lieutenant Courtenay chuckled mirthlessly in response, biting his lip almost to the point of drawing blood. “She wrote me a letter breaking it off a month or so before I was gassed. Apologised profusely for being unfaithful to me, for falling in love with someone else before blaming it on me for being so far away. I didn't find out that it was Jack she had chucked me for until I was already laid up in the field hospital in France.”

“Sounds like you had a lucky escape, then,” Thomas pointed out as brightly as he could before returning his attention to the remainder of the short letter. _“Although disappointed he couldn't serve Jack has taken to running the place in your absence and has already set about making arrangements for your return home. No expense shall be spared, my darling, but things cannot be as they were and, whatever you might think, Jack has your best interest at heart. He has selected a suitable–”_

“Stop.”

Obediently Thomas fell silent, studying the handsome young man whose voice had become painfully choked and whose entire appearance screamed of crushing defeat.

He'd believed Jack to simply be the name of Elvira’s new fiancé but now...

“…who's Jack?”

“My younger brother,” Courtenay sighed deeply, his hands clenching atop the bedsheets covering his body. “He means to replace me. It's what he's always wanted.”

His brother?

Thomas had four sisters so he knew how siblings could find reasons to fight against each other, petty rivalries that could last for years if they were allowed to, but he couldn't imagine any of them seducing a man away from one of the others or trying to control a siblings life after they'd suffered such a tragedy as to lose their sight.

Not even if that sibling were him.

“Yeah, well...” he trailed off uncomfortably, struggling to find something to say.

“I'm sorry,” Courtenay apologised quickly. “I mustn't bore you...”

“Don't let him walk all over you,” Thomas announced firmly having finally settled on something suitable to say to the distressed young officer. “Go fight your corner.”

Lieutenant Courtenay chuckled self-derisively.

“What with?”

“Your brain,” Thomas answered instantly, his voice growing firmer as he finally figured out what to say. “You're not a victim, don't let them make you into one.”

“You know, when you talk like that, I almost believe you...”

“You should believe me,” Thomas told him firmly, placing the letter back inside the envelope. “All my life people have pushed me around…just ‘cause I'm different…”

“How?” Courtenay asked with a frown. “Why are you different?”

“Never mind,” Thomas murmured quickly, not wanting to ruin the rapport he had built up with the poor young officer by revealing too much. “Look...look, I don’t…I don't know if you're going to see again or not, but I do know you have to fight back.”

“Is that what you did?” Courtenay asked hesitantly, reaching out to rest hand on Thomas’s knee, so close to where his stump was resting on his thigh. “Fought back?”

Thomas thought about it for a long moment.

“Yes,” he confirmed, reaching across to rest his hand atop the officers. “Although, admittedly, I was reluctant to do so at first. I thought that that my life was over, despite the fact that I had survived when others had not. I was ready to give up.”

“I…”

“I've lost my hand although thankfully not my dominant hand, but still…” Thomas pressed on, knowing that if he stopped now he'd never speak of this again and his growing friendship with Lieutenant Courtenay would be forever tarnished. “I have an abundance of scars ranging from the seemingly insignificant to the grotesque, mostly on my face and neck. And my stump, of course, that's quite a mess to look at I assure you. And I've lost the sight in my left eye.”

“I didn't know…” Courtenay murmured, his hand trembling where it rested against Thomas’s knee and it was strangely automatic for the orderly to squeeze the hand with his own. “I knew you'd been wounded in action but I had no idea it was so…”

“I don't like to talk about it,” Thomas admitted. “Three of the men who were with me were killed outright and the other lost his legs. I was a footman before the war and, well, there's no way I can return to that life after all of this is over. I was ready to give up when this sickeningly chipper nurse entered my life and wouldn't let me.”

“Nurse Crawley?”

“No, this was back in France,” Thomas chuckled, understanding how the misunderstanding could have happened given how the description could easily be applied to both of the nurses he’d been close to in recent years. “Her name was Marshall, Flora Marshall and she had no business being in a field hospital. Too sweet. Too naïve. Too innocent. But that was, apparently, exactly what I needed.”

“She sounds nice…”

“She is. And extremely determined. She refused to let me _fall into a funk_ , as she called it, and set about helping me learn how to cope with my injuries,” he chuckled, thinking back on some of her strange methods. “She wouldn't let me give up and that was exactly what I needed. She saw me through my _funk_ and here I am today.”

Courtenay inhaled deeply.

“And now I intend to do the same for you,” Thomas concluded firmly, sucking in a sharp breath of his own as he boldly manoeuvred the blind officers hand until it was pressed against his cloth-covered stump, biting his lip as Courtenay let out a shocked grunt. “You _will_ be alright, whether you recover your sight or not. Your life _isn't_ over unless you choose to give up. And…well…to be frank, sir, I won't let you…”

He held himself perfectly still as the officer explored the shape of the stump with his fingers, following the line of his arm up to his elbow before giving the stump a final, gentle squeeze before returning his hand to its original position on Thomas’s knee.

“ _In Arduis Fidelis,_ ” Thomas murmured softly, quoting the motto he had learnt during basic training when he had still naïvely believe that volunteering for the _Royal Army Medical Corps_ would keep him safe from the horrors of war. “ _Faithful in Adversity_. That means I'm here for you, sir, and don't you forget that.”

Courtenay sucked in another, somewhat shakier, lungful of air as his free hand moved to pat gently at the dressing still covering his eyes causing Thomas to suspect he was crying.

“Thank you…I…I can't…just…thank you…”

Thomas stayed with him until he'd regained his composure enough to hear the rest of his letter, what little more of it there was, after which he enquired if Thomas was still in contact with “ _his Nurse Marshall_ ” whilst the orderly fussed over his blankets.

“Oh, she's not _my_ anything, I assure you,” Thomas snorted, shaking his head as he let out a wry chuckle. “Although you're not the first person to assume so. We're...well…I suppose you could call us friends. And yes, she writes frequently and I reply when I can. She's still in France causing complete and utter chaos wherever she goes.”

“ _Complete and utter chaos?_ ” Lieutenant Courtenay repeated, an elegant eyebrow arching above the white dressings covering his eyes. “Now that sounds like an interesting story.”

“One of many,” Thomas chuckled as he recalled the numerous instances he had witnessed or heard about regarding Flora Marshall. “Her latest _incident_ , as she called it, included an unpleasant smelling bedpan, a visiting Army Officer and a mouse. I think you can probably imagine what happened but I'll read you her version of events later, if you'd like.”

“…I believe I would enjoy that a great deal,” Courtenay responded once he'd gotten over his initial surprise, a handsome smile blossoming on his face which made Thomas’s heart thump unusually violently inches chest. “Thank you, again, for knowing what I needed to hear…”

“You're welcome, sir.”

“Edward,” Courtenay called out as Thomas turned to go. “My name is Edward.”

For some unfathomable reason this simple statement caused Thomas to smile like one of the naïve young kitchen maids up at the Abbey did when they were noticed by a hall boy.

“Thomas,” he returned softly. “My name is Thomas.”

He fled before he could do something as uncharacteristic as blush when the handsome young officer stretched out on the bed smile towards him as he tested his name on his lips.

Finishing up his rounds he decided to have a quick break and, after grabbing a cup of tea, he headed out to what had become his favourite spot to have a sit down and a cigarette only to find the stretch of wall underneath the large tree already occupied by a familiar couple.

“…leave, if you want me to,” Tom murmured sincerely, clutching at Sybil’s hand as they stood underneath the tree. “Just tell me you don't love me and I'll go. I won't bother yo–”

“No!”

Leaning back against the wall of the building Thomas placed his cup and saucer down on a nearby ledge so that he could then pick up the cup and sip his tea as he watched the situation playing out before him with what was probably an unhealthy amount of interest.

“I don't want you to leave,” Sybil continued, clutching back at his hands with her own as though to root him to the spot. “I just…I don't know what you want me to say!”

“I want you to admit how you really feel about me,” Tom responded instantly, ducking down so that their faces were only a couple of centimetres apart. “You know how I feel about you. I'll wait, you know I'll wait, but…I need to know what I'm waiting for…”

Thomas grimaced.

It was like something out of an _operetta_ , he thought to himself as he placed his cup, empty but for the dregs, back into its saucer without even attempting to muffle the noise it made.

Startled the two of them sprang apart, both of them struggling for a moment as they tried to figure out what to do with their hands now that they weren't holding onto each other.

“I love you, Sybil Crawley,” Tom vowed, his voice thick with emotion. “And I _will_ wait.”

“Tom…” Sybil gasped, reaching out for him just as he turned and hurried away from her whilst jamming his cap back on his head, obviously intending to return to the Abbey. “I…”

Her steps faltered as he disappeared around the side of the building, her body coming to a visibly unsteady halt as she allowed her extended arm to drop down to hang at her side.

Leaving his cup and saucer where they rested Thomas made his way across to his intended destination, dropping down to sit on the wall beneath the tree whilst patting his tunic pockets in order to figure out where he'd stashed his cigarettes after his last quick break.

“So…that looked like it could have gone better,” he announced, retrieving his cigarettes and shaking out two of the little sticks of tobacco as Sybil spun around to face him. “Smoke?”

Letting out a desolate sigh the young woman nodded, moving to sit beside him as he placed both cigarettes between his lips and used his new lighter, acquired from one of the men who sadly no longer needed it, to light both of them before passing one over to her.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough to know that if you added a couple of songs you'd have a tale worthy of _Gilbert and Sullivan_ ,” Thomas answered, finding it impossible not to tease his friend. “ _A wandering chauffeur I, a thing of leather gloves and goggles, of brass buttons and…_ hmm…what rhymes with goggles? Toggles? No. Boggles? Coggles? Doggles? No, those aren't even real words…”

He was not expecting her response to his teasing to be an uncontrollable flood of tears.

Not good.

“Don't cry, Sybil,” he murmured softly, holding his cigarette between his fingers as he put his wounded arm around her shoulders in a gentle hug. “I was only teasing…”

And wasn't that a testament to how much life had changed him?

Gone were the days he would have relished making someone cry, when he would have merely smirked in response and left in search of his next victim, needing the attention that such behaviour would bring him in order to reassure himself that people noticed him.

Now he felt…guilty...

“I'm sorry,” Sybil apologised through her continuing tears, leaning into his embrace automatically without even reacting to the fact that his stump was now resting against her shoulder. “I'm usually stronger than this but…I just…I don't know what to do…”

Ah.

So it hadn't necessarily been his alterations to the famous song lyrics that had had upset her, rather it was a delayed response to her feelings during the conversation with Tom.

That he was more comfortable with dealing with.

“Sybil, we've spoken of this subject many times before this but, honestly? It all comes down to one important question,” he announced, ducking his head in order to force her eyes to meet his. Both of their cigarettes were forgotten for the moment. “Do you love him?”

Her answer, though little more than a whisper, came instantly and without hesitation.

“Yes.”

“Good!” Thomas laughed, giving her shoulders a shake for good measure as she blinked at him in surprise. “Then forget about all the little voices in your head telling you what a terrible idea it would be and how much your family would disapprove and just be happy!”

Happiness was few and far between these days and if anyone deserved to be happy it was Sybil Crawley, the daughter of an Earl who had willingly walked away from her easy life of price large in order to care for the men who had volunteered to serve their country in war.

No one would have thought any less of her had she done nothing but the fact that she had done something made her special, more special than she probably realised.

Then again she'd always been like that, helping those who weren't as lucky as she was.

Look at how she aided Gwen in leaving service, arranging for her to become a secretary.

Yes, Sybil Crawley was definitely someone who Thomas believed should get to be happy.

“...what about you?”

Her soft question took him completely by surprise.

“What about me?”

Now it was Sybil turn to lock her gaze with his and for just a brief moment Thomas begrudged her for the fact that she could cry and still look absolutely beautiful whereas if he had so much a sniffle his eyes became red and puffy while his cheeks flushed painfully.

That was not fair.

“I've seen you when you're with Lieutenant Courtenay, Thomas, the way you look at him,” she announced, dragging him out of his jealous musings and dumping him into a icy bucket of shock. She couldn't…she couldn't be talking about something like that out here. “The way you talk to him. I know you've told him things you've never told anyone else, even me.”

“I…”

“And I've seen the way he responds to you. He's so much better after his talks with you,” she continued, finally bringing her cigarette to her plump lips. “Perhaps it's time you took some of your own advice. Forget about the little voices in your head and just be happy.”

Thomas was, mercifully, spared from coming up with an answer after she turned the conversation back on him by the arrival of an ambulance at the front of the building, gravel crunching loudly as the vehicle came to a sudden halt amidst voicing calling for help.

Their cigarettes were dropped, forgotten, as they rushed off to do their jobs.

 

 **A/N** I have been genuinely surprised by the response to this story so I'd just like to say thank you to everyone. That said I hope you liked this latest instalment. Love is hard, we all know that. I've been asked how much of a canon divergence I'm planning on and I'm going to be totally honest, I have no idea. I'm going to see what I feel like when I reach those particular points in the story and see what fits with my basic plan/idea. Sorry. X


	9. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Nine; England, 1917**

_It's funny, how terrifying the prospect of facing the future alone can be._

_How it can drive a man, or woman, to do something they would never have considered out of fear, desperate for things to remain as they are._

_To remain familiar._

_To remain safe._

_Change is a fact of life, that is common knowledge, but not all change is easy._

_Having your life ripped away from you in an instant, leaving you without the future you had envisioned and strived towards if the worst sort of change there is. You can cope, however, as long as you receive the support you need from people who love and care you._

_But what about when those people aren't there?_

_When they're taken away from you?_

_It's funny, how terrifying the prospect of facing the future alone can be._

~ * ~

Thomas had quickly realised that, whilst he had had to adjust the way he did things to allow for his limited vision and the physical impairment of a lost limb, helping someone who had completely lost their sight regain their independence was an entirely different kettle of fish.

He could turn his head to see things on his left side if he wanted to.

Lieutenant Courtenay could not.

It wasn't too much of an issue for the first couple of weeks when they were limited due to his physical condition to learning how to do things relatively simple things like dress himself.

Buttons were an issue to begin with but that was mostly due to the fact that Thomas couldn't demonstrate how to do them having resorted to finding an old buttoner he could use to speed up his own dressing time in the mornings rather than struggle one handed.

Sybil had eventually been forced to demonstrate, wrapping her arms around Lieutenant Courtenay from behind and allowing the officer to rest his hands on top of hers as she worked the buttons of his shirt open and closed, giggling uncontrollably as she did so due to the fact that several of the other patients whistled loudly and begged her to “ _do them next._ ”

It had been much easier for Thomas to help the blind young man familiarise himself with things like money, confirming or correcting him when he guessed what coin or note he held after relying on what he had learnt as a child or young adult to aid him in his guess work.

“…half-a-crown?”

“Correct,” Thomas murmured, reaching out to swap out the coin Lieutenant Courtenay had been holding with the tips of his fingers. “Last one for the moment. What do you reckon?”

He watched as the blind young man rolled the small coin back and forth between his hands, fingers testing the size of it and feeling for the design of both sides of the copper coin.

“…halfpenny?” ( _A/N pronounced “hay-p’ny”_ )

Thomas grimaced apologetically even though Lieutenant Courtenay couldn't see him.

“Sorry, sir,” he murmured. “Close but not quite close enough. That's a farthing.”

Unsurprisingly the officer was much better at judging the bigger denominations like shillings, florins and half-crowns than the smaller stuff due to the fact that as the son of a landowner he probably wouldn't have spent his time counting out every last bit of change.

Returning the collections of coins to his pocket Thomas moved out of the way so that the nurses could serve the patients their lunches, watching from the side-lines as Lieutenant Courtenay managed to eat all of his soup without spilling a single drop on himself.

Eating and drinking had been something they had been working on rather a lot.

Moving to help an older officer who had sadly lost both hands to an explosion Thomas set about cheerfully feeding the somewhat despondent man, chatting idly about everything and anything, desperate to get more than a grunt in response but failing miserably.

He feared that they would lose this one to infection if his spirits didn't improve soon, the state of a man’s soul definitely contributing to his likelihood of making a decent recovery.

Sybil cornered him as the lunch things were being cleared away.

“I got it,” she announced, producing an elegantly carved walking stick from behind her back as though presenting it for proper inspection. “I think I got the right height but if not Papa has several more for us to choose from. We’ll have to see how Courtenay does with it.”

“What did Lord Grantham say when you asked to borrow one of his walking sticks?”

Her silence and somewhat sheepish smile was answer enough.

“You didn't ask him, did you?”

“He would have said no out of principal,” Sybil responded with a deep sigh, pressing the stick into his hands. “Not that it really matters. I doubt he'll even notice this one is missing. It was a gift from someone or other and he has never once had the inclination to use it.”

It was certainly just the sort of thing they needed to get Lieutenant Courtenay up and about.

“Well, on your head be it…”

It had been an exercise of trial and error, leading the young officer out to the empty space between the hospital and the orderlies accommodation tent where they then helped him to figure out how best to use the stick to get a feel of the lay of the land in front of him.

After only a couple of days he could move confidently and avoid most of the obstacles they had found for him to confront, chairs, bushes, trees and even the odd wall although going down any sort of stairs be it a flight or a single step still caused him a great deal of trouble.

Going up, on the other hand, was no trouble at all.

Thomas had just returned from a visit up to the Abbey which had been spent gloss pining with Miss O’Brien and the flighty young maid named Ethel when Major Clarkson sought the three of them out whilst they were in their usual space watching Courtenay navigate an obstacle course they had created out of chairs, tables and even Thomas himself.

“That's it,” Thomas called out from his place as the final obstacle on the course. “That's right, sir. If you move the stick fast enough, you don't have to slacken your pace.”

“And check the width of the space as well as any possible obstruction,” Sybil reminded him helpfully from her own position following the young officer as he moved. “That way you–”

Major Clarkson’s booming voice interrupted whatever she has been about to say.

“Lieutenant Courtenay!”

Nothing about Clarkson’s appearance or mannerisms gave away that there was anything wrong but Thomas had learned that an officer only sought out those bellow themselves when they either wanted or needed something and, usually, that wasn't a good thing.

“Well done,” the doctor offered the praise with a smile. “You're making good progress.”

“Thanks to my saviours.”

Sybil smiled in response to Courtenay's soft statement whilst Thomas was forced to snap to a semi-professional salute when Major Clarkson's gaze fell upon him where he was stood.

Something in the way Major Clarkson smiled filled Thomas with inexplicable dread.

“So you'll be pleased to hear that we're all agreed that it's time for you to continue treatment elsewhere.”

“…what?”

Lieutenant Courtenay sounded so weak and fragile Thomas wanted to do nothing more than gather him up in his arms and never let him go, the ever present feelings he'd been attempting to control due to the hopefulness of the situation roaring into life in an instant.

“At Farley Hall,” Clarkson breezed on calmly as though the young officer in front of him hadn't been reduced to a trembling wreck by his careless words. “You're not ill anymore. All you need is time to adjust to your condition, and the staff at Farley can help with that.”

“But, sir…” Courtenay all but whimpered shakily. “These two are helping me here.”

Major Clarkson glanced back forth between the patient he was addressing and the two members of the medical staff who had been diligently caring for him, a frown on his face.

“Nurse Crawley and Sergeant Barrow are not trained in specialist care.”

“Please…” Courtenay's genuinely did whimper this time, clutching desperately at both the stick and the chair as he tiled his head towards Clarkson. “Don't send me away. Not yet.”

No matter how much Thomas had doubted the existence of his heart before now he could safely say he had one as in that moment it was breaking, shattering into a million pieces as he watched a proud young man be reduced to literally begging for mercy by his own doctor.

It was this broken heart that he would blame for his speaking up out of turn,

“Sir, surely we–”

Major Clarkson silenced his protest with a look that promised trouble later on.

“Lieutenant,” the older officer addressed the wounded officer calmly, apparently unaffected by the break down he had just sparked in the young man they were caring for. “You must know that every one of our beds is needed for the injured and dying from Arras. Mmm?”

Major Clarkson then had the nerve to reach out an part Lieutenant Courtenay on the arm in one of the most patronising manners Thomas had seen, treating him like an upset child.

Of course this was when his commanding officers attention turned towards him.

“Sergeant, I'll see you in my office.”

Courtenay was unusually quiet as they led him back to his bed, both Thomas and Sybil forced to aid him more than usual as the officer seemed incapable of using his stick as they had been teaching him to i is current emotional state, his expression completely blank.

He hated leaving Sybil to get him settled but he couldn't defy a direct order, no matter how much he wanted to, and obediently reported to Major Clarkson's office where he knocked, waiting for a now hated voice to call out for him to enter and finally did just that.

It was even more uncomfortable than the first time he'd reported before this officer.

“Sergeant Barrow, I do not appreciate it whe–”

Thomas couldn't stop himself, interrupting the officer even as he stood with his arms behind his back in as perfect a position of parade rest as he could achieve with his wounded arm.

“Sir, I only meant to say that Lieutenant Courtenay is depressed.”

“And how would you know, Sergeant?” Major Clarkson scoffed, leaning back in his chair as he observed the man standing on the other side of his desk. “Are you a doctor?”

“No, sir,” Thomas responded automatically before clenching his one remaining hand and pressing on with his explanation. “I know because I have been there myself.”

“I will not leave wounded soldiers freezing or sweating under canvas because one junior officer is depressed!” Clarkson snapped in response to his statement, visibly clenching his own fists on top of the desk just as someone knocked loudly on the door. “Yes?!”

“I thought you may want to know what I think,” Sybil announced confidently as she pushed her way into the room, the door swinging wildly from the force she had used to open it.

“Why should I?” Major Clarkson actually outright scoffed and Thomas had to hold back a growl of annoyance as his unexpected friend was disrespected so blatantly. “Nurse Crawley, I may not be your social superior in a Mayfair ballroom, but in this hospital, I have the deciding voice. Please help him prepare his belongings. He leaves first thing in the morning.”

Sybil glare could only be described as deadly.

“This is a mistake…” Thomas vowed sadly before turning and marching smartly out of the room, followed by Sybil who in a moment of pure temper slammed the door behind them. “Why wouldn't he listen to us? We know Lieutenant Courtenay far better than he does therefore we are the ones who know what is best him, what he needs. This is…wrong…”

“Major Clarkson is more concerned about the facts and the figures than the officer in question,” Sybil muttered angrily, positively spitting out each and every word. “I thought we were supposed to help the men recover not just ship them off to somewhere else when they reach a certain point in their recovery? Hand them over to strangers who don't know them at all and just, what, forget about them? This is not what I would call proper nursing.”

Thomas agreed with her whole heartedly.

It was physically painful for him to help pack up the Lieutenants things, all the while trying to appear cheerful as he reassured the despondent young officer that everything would be alright, that the men and women at Farley Hall would be able to help him recover fully.

Every single word taste like ash in his mouth and, as soon as he was able, he excused himself from the ward where the completely silent young man lay and smoked his way through the remainder of his cigarettes in quick succession, all the way fighting back tears of frustration.

Why would they do this?

There was no way this would help the poor young man’s recovery, ripping him away from people he'd learned to trust, people he had come to rely on and perhaps even like.

Thomas was amazed to realise that only a fraction of his anger and frustration came from the fact that he was losing contact with the man he had unwillingly fallen in love with, that the majority of his feelings stemmed from his concern for Lieutenant Courtenay's health.

“Damn you, Clarkson,” he hissed angrily, throwing down the last of his final cigarette and stomping on the burning embers with his heavy black boot. “Damn you to hell…”

It was a struggle to go about his duties for the remainder of the day without glancing worriedly across at the young officer who had barely moved an inch, hardly responding to anyone that tried to talk to him be they a nurse, an orderly or a fellow patient.

He had to find some way to stop this from happening.

He had to…

An uncomfortable feeling of inexplicable worry settled itself into his stomach as he was making his final round of the day, checking that all the doors and windows were locked and the lights out so that the patients could sleep, something pulling him to check on Courtenay.

What he found was something out of his worst nightmare and would haunt him for the rest of his life alongside his memories of the front lines and the day he himself had been injured.

Somehow Lieutenant Courtenay had gotten hold of a razor and had used the sharp blade to slice open both of his wrists, a river of blood staining his sheets and dripping onto the floor.

“…fuck…” Thomas gasped, his heart lurching into his throat as he took the last few steps to Courtenay's side at an uncontrollable rate before dropping to his knees beside the bed, heedless of the blood soaking into his trousers as he reached out and placed his hand over the deeper of the two wounds, the one of his left wrist. “Help! I need help in here!”

His panicked shout woke the patients, the nearest of whom responded automatically by reaching out to press his hand to the wound on Courtenay's right wrist whilst the duty nurse who had nipped out to use the lavatory came hurrying back in without her apron done up.

“Cuts to both wrists, uncontrollable bleeding,” Thomas reported automatically. “I need bandages, lots of bandages and dressings. Hurry! And fetch Major Clarkson. Now!”

The young nurse took off with a terrified sob but Thomas barely heard her as it was at that particular moment that Lieutenant Courtenay's sightless eyes fluttered open, the clouded orbs gazing up towards Thomas’s terrified face even as he let out a weak moan.

“Thomas...”

“You stupid bastard!” Thomas gasped, tears suddenly bursting forth from his eyes as he encouraged the other patient to lift the appendage he held up into the air in order to slow the blood flow as best they could. “ _You stupid bloody bastard!_ Don't you dare die!”

“Thomas…”

“You're not allowed to die!” he snapped, leaning down so as to check on the state of Courtenay's breathing which brought him close enough to the young office that he could whisper without being overheard by any of the other patients watching the scene in horror. “You hear me? You can't die. Not…not when I haven't even told you how much I love you…”

Thomas received no response.

 

 **A/N** I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But stay with me because…well…just because…Anyway, has everyone been watching the ‘Invictus Games’ in Orlando? If not I recommend watching it back on BBC iplayer or the American equivalent as it has been amazing and humbling and so utterly inspirational, particularly in regards to my research for this story. Especially the documentary about the Invictus Choir, that literally reduced me to tears when I watched it. Truly stunning. Ok, that said its time to return to my writing as I've got the next few chapters planned out now and I know you'll want the resolve for this cliffhanger sooner rather than later. Comments  & Suggestions are welcome and appreciated as per usual. X

 **A/N2** Starting to regret my idea to begin every chapter with an “It's funny,…” moment as believe it or not they are the hardest bit for me to write and I've written the last couple after writing the rest of the chapter where all the details and action actually happen. Lol. X


	10. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Ten; England, 1917**

_It's funny, how one single life can change those around them so significantly by merely continuing to exist. How a person can affect those in close proximity to them without meaning to. How even a decision made by a single individual can affect so many others._

_Death is a fact of life. It awaits every living creature, human or otherwise._

_It also affects every living creature, human or otherwise, in unimaginable ways. But sometimes it is when a person defies death that they cause the most effect to others._

_So many people should have died during the war but they didn't._

_They clung to life, they fought hard to survive and make it home to their loved ones._

_And in most cases that survival came at a cost._

_A limb. A sense. Sometimes even a person’s sanity._

_Their decision to survive shaped not only their futures but the futures of those around them, those who cared for them. They shaped the lives of people they knew, people they'd only briefly met and, in some cases, people they had never met in their entire lives._

_It wasn't easy._

_Nothing worth having ever is._

_But it was worth it._

_It's funny, how one single life can change those around them so significantly by merely continuing to exist. How a person can affect those in close proximity to them without meaning to. How even a decision made by a single individual can affect so many others._

~ * ~

“He must have smuggled a razor into his bed,” Major Clarkson sighed deeply as the small group gathered around the bed which had been placed at the far end of the ward behind a protective screen following the _unfortunate_ _incident_ in the night. “It's a miracle you reached him in time, Sergeant. I dread to think how this might have turned out had you not…”

“It's because we ordered him to go.”

Sybil’s soft voice spoke the words he himself longed to say but knew that he could not, knew that opening up that particular floodgate would be a bad idea. Instead he continued with his current task of ensuring that the dressings on Lieutenant Courtenay's damaged wrists were done properly so as to protect the delicate stitches holding his skin together.

“We don't know that.”

Mrs Crawley stood ever so slightly off to the side clutching her clipboard as though her life depended on in, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she took in the figure lying on the bed. They'd been forced to apply a series of leather straps to keep Lieutenant Crawley still once he woke up, whenever that might be, for fear of him trying to kill himself again.

It was a rather distressing sight to witness, one which prompted Sybil to fuss about making sure that the straps were tight enough to do their jobs but not so tight as to cause him harm.

“This is a tragedy, I don't deny it,” Major Clarkson admitted, some of the colour returning to his cheeks after spending so many hours looking positively ashen. Thomas had never seen the older man look as shaken as when he had arrived on the scene, his trousers pulled on over the top of his pyjamas. “But I cannot see what other course was open to me. We have no room for men to convalesce here and Farley is the nearest house I can send them to.”

“There is a solution and it's staring us in the face,” Mrs Crawley countered softly, squaring her shoulders when all three of them turned to stare at her with various levels of confusion and hope in their eyes. “Downton Abbey.”

Thomas’s response was exactly the same as Major Clarkson’s, both of them scoffing loudly.

“Would the ever allow it?” Clarkson wondered disbelievingly. “Or even consider it?”

“I think they would,” Sybil murmured, rising from her crouched position before leaning down to run her fingers through Lieutenant Courtenay's wayward curls. Her eyes locked with Thomas’s, filled with pure determination. “After this, I think they can be made to.”

Thomas truly hoped so.

His heart still hadn't calmed down from the rapid pace it had taken up upon finding Courtenay with his wrists slashed open, blood everywhere and calling his name weakly.

He was beginning to doubt it would ever calm down.

Stepping back in order to allow Major Clarkson to get to work saving the Lieutenant’s life had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, his mind screaming at him that _he_ needed to be the one to save Edward. Eventually he'd hurried around the bed to take over from the patient holding tightly to the Lieutenant’s other hand, feeling the wild thrum of the younger man’s heartbeat through the warm blood pulsing against the palm of his hand.

“Thomas, I want you to stay with the Lieutenant until he wakes up and then send one of the nurses to fetch me,” Major Clarkson ordered, running a shaking hand through his own hair. “It has been my experience that failed attempts of suicide such as this are usually followed by secondary attempts which almost always prove fatal. We cannot allow that happen.”

“I'll stay with him, Major Clarkson.”

Thomas had never been happier to follow a superiors order than he was in that moment.

He had been sent away to “clean himself up” in the early hours of the morning after sitting vigil over Lieutenant Courtenay's bed with Major Clarkson, both of them reluctant to leave in case the young man should take a turn for the worse. He'd done so, scrubbing his skin raw and throwing his ruined uniform into the laundry basket to be cleaned, before hurrying back to the ward. It never even crossed his mind to take a longer break, to get some sleep.

Now as he sat watching the steady rise and fall of the young officer’s chest he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open, the lack of sleep causing them to sting and ache uncomfortably. Leaning out from behind the screen he beckoned to the Nurse on duty and asked for her to arrange for a cup of strong tea and a newspaper to be brought to him.

He needed something to keep him awake and alert.

As it was he found himself stunned beyond belief as he read the erroneous articles about the war in France, muttering to himself as he felt his blood start to boil with every piece of blatant propaganda and carefully worded reporting he came across. It didn't seem to matter to them that the casualty lists for the battle they were glorifying were still coming in, didn't seem to care that an estimated 25,000 men had lost their lives. There wasn't even a mention of how many men had been wounded in action, seriously or otherwise.

All that matter to them was that strategically they could claim it as a British Victory.

“…what are you…muttering about?”

A gasp escaped his previously pursed lips as his gaze snapped up from the sheets of newspaper spread across his thighs, finding the blank stare of the young officer lying beside him on the bed visibly contorted with confusion. Hurriedly he pushed the newspaper away, uncaring of how it fell to the floor, as Lieutenant Courtenay had chosen that exact moment to attempt to push himself up into a sitting position and discovered he was restrained.

“T-Thomas?” he gasped fearfully. “Why can't I move?”

“You've been strapped down to the bed,” Thomas hurried to reassure him, placing his hand on top of Edwards and giving it a gentle squeeze. With a shuddered breathe the young officer grasped hold of his hand. “It's…it’s to stop…do you remember what happened last night?”

Edward stilled instantly, what little colour he'd had draining out of his face.

“…it seemed like…it seemed like my only option at the time…” he eventually mumbled hollowly, tilting his head down as though looking at his damaged wrists through his sightless eyes. “…I couldn't face the idea of leaving here…leaving you…I need you, you see...”

His heart clenched painfully in his chest.

“Sir...”

“I do,” Edward hissed firmly, tightening the grip he had on Thomas's hand to the point where the medic had to wince. “I need you. I can't...I can't face it without you. I won't...”

It was times like these more than any others that he wished he still had his other hand.

“I need you to calm down, sir,” he eventually murmured, reluctantly pressing his stump against the back of Edwards’s hand. “The last thing we want you to do is tear your stitches.”

Thomas honestly didn't think he could stand seeing that much blood coming out of someone he knew, someone he cared for, someone he _loved_ , ever again.

His mind would…shatter…

Thankfully his request seemed to break through the panic which had settled around Lieutenant Courtenay's shoulders, clouding his judgement, and almost at once he let go of Thomas’s hand with a pained hiss. A circle of red had appeared on the pristine dressing.

“I need to fetch Major Clarkson,” he murmured, giving Edwards hand a gentle squeeze as he forced his stiff legs to respond and rose from the chair. “I'll send a nurse to sit with you.”

“…I really do need you, Thomas…” Edward mumbled just as Thomas was about to disappear around the screen. “You…you keep the voices away and…and I know I can trust you…”

“ _Old_ ” Thomas would have scoffed at that.

Trust him?

What a ridiculous notion, one that would cost the individual doing the trusting a great deal once “ _old_ ” Thomas had figured out a way to use said trust against them for his own gain.

“ _New_ ” Thomas, the one the horrors of war had created, merely smiled and silently vowed never again to do anything which would jeopardise the trust which had been placed in him.

“I'll do my best, sir,” he murmured. “I'll ask the nurse to bring you something to drink.”

Edward managed a tremulous smile in response.

After passing on his request for a nurse to take a cup of tea and sit with Lieutenant Courtenay he went in search of Major Clarkson, finding him in front of the hospital busy organising things for the expected arrival of the ambulances bringing patients from France.

“Make sure all of those stretchers are prepared and laid out neatly along the wall,” he ordered two of the youngest orderlies who weren't the best at putting the wooden and cloth stretchers together. Thomas made a mental note to send a more experience orderly out to check on them. “Nurse, I want a tea urn over there for the walking wounded. Make sure it's nice and strong and put sugar in their cups, even if they don't usually take it.”

“Major Clarkson?”

“Barrow?” Clarkson frowned as he turned to face him. “I thought I told you to stay with–”

“Lieutenant Courtenay is awake, sir,” Thomas interrupted the doctor before he could begin to lecture him about obeying orders when they were given. “I've asked a nurse to sit with him whilst I fetched you. He was rather upset upon waking and may have torn his stitches.”

Major Clarkson’s stern expression dropped into one of concern. And of course it was at this precise moment that the first of the ambulances they were expecting turned into the road.

“Barrow, I need you to set up a basic triage centre out here whilst I check on Lieutenant Courtenay,” Major Clarkson ordered, handing his clipboard over to a nurse. “Keep the walking wounded out here for the moment. Those who are in need of immediate attention to the operating theatre and the small ward. It's been temporarily cleared to accept these cases. Those not in need of immediate treatment but who require a bed can be put on the main ward for now. Nurse Crawley, you'll be in charge of getting them settled in the main ward. Nurse Rawlings, could you organise the patients who are taken to the small ward?”

“Yes, Major Clarkson.”

“I'll only be five minutes or so,” Major Clarkson murmured reassuringly. “These men take precedence over anything else that is not life threatening including Lieutenant Courtenay but I would rather see him settled and comfortable before we begin treating those in need.”

“Yes, Major Clarkson.”

Thomas got the feeling that in this particular instance _settled_ meant the same as _sedated_.

Perhaps that was for the best, though, since Thomas doubted he would be able to return to Edwards side until much later in the day thank to the task he'd now been given to complete given the fact that they were expecting six ambulances to arrive in total, a task he should have been expecting to receive as Head Orderly but hadn't for whatever reason. He could do without the added duties, if he was being brutally honest, given the fact that he hadn't slept over twenty-four hours and had spent a fair chunk of those as an emotional wreck.

But this was wartime, this was his job and therefore he didn't have the luxury of saying no.

It was quickly evident that the first ambulance had been crammed full with the worst off patients, the ones who had been evacuated directly to England without going through a field hospital. The mud still clung to their clothes and bodies, all drenched in blood, and most of them only had a field dressing covering their wounds. Infection would be a huge problem with this group, he expected, as most of those field dressings were just as dirty.

Making sure to check each stretched over before a patient was transferred on to it, relieved to find them all securely put together and not at risk of collapsing, he directed the gathered orderlies and ambulance crew to follow Nurse Rawlings to the theatre and the small ward.

The second, third and fourth ambulances all arrived in quick succession and held a mixture of patients. Most were bad but not in desperate need of attention so these he passed over to Sybil whilst he himself took on the task of herding the walking wounded to one side.

“Petunia,” he called out to the trembling young nurse by the tea urn. “Tea. Now.”

“Y-Yes, Sergeant Barrow.”

When the fifth ambulance arrived he discovered it was crammed to bursting with walking wounded, mostly cases of gas blindness, and so he quickly instructed another nurse to take the first group of walking wounded and get them settled into the garden at the back of the hospital where the orderly’s tent was. They'd be comfortable on the soft grass, warmed by the sun and with warm tea in the bellies, but they'd also be safely out of the way for the moment. This meant this new group of walking wounded could be looked after out front.

The last ambulance was followed by a very familiar car, from which alighted the newly promoted Captain Crawley in his smart uniform and Tom Branson in his familiar chauffeur’s uniform, buttons gleaming in the sun. He paid them no more attention after that as the final ambulance had been filled with a mixture of serious and those not in urgent need of care.

“Do you know where Lady Sybil is?”

Thomas glanced sharply at Tom, noting the basket he had retrieved from the motor car.

“Follow me,” Thomas murmured, already envisioning how this would play out inside. He gestured for the orderlies to get to work transporting the patients to the various places they needed to be and left the walking wounded gathered around the tea urn where Petunia, or Nurse Biddle as she should be known, had finally come to her senses and was taking charge. “As you can see we've just received a delivery of new patients so we're a little busy.”

Both Captain Crawley and Tom nodded, their eyes falling to some of the stretchers being carried past them. The horror and confusion they felt was evident although Thomas was pleased to note a significant amount of compassion and sympathy in their expressions too.

They found Sybil working alongside Mrs Crawley to get the mud covered men settled into the empty beds, most of them temporary and places between the already existing beds.

“Right to the other end,” Mrs Crawley ordered, gesturing towards the screen behind which Thomas knew Edward lay. The orderlies she'd spoken to changed direction. “That way.”

Thomas watched out of the corner of his eye as Tom hesitantly approached Sybil.

“Her Ladyship had Mrs Patmore make this up for you so you could eat something during the day.”

“Oh, I won't have time,” she murmured, only briefly glancing away from the young man she was helping get settled. Half his face was concealed by bandages and he seemed more than a little out of it, his body slow to respond to her touch. “But, thank you, for bringing it...”

Major Clarkson appeared into the room, his white cost already stained with someone's blood. There was a smudge of dirt on his chest as well. He gestured for Thomas to join him.

“Clarkson,” Captain Crawley murmured, nodding respectfully towards the older man whilst Thomas struggled to Madame his way through the chaotic throng of people. “Mother…”

“Oh, Matthew,” Mrs Crawley gasped loudly. “I'm afraid I'm very busy, as you can see.”

“I just want to help.”

“Sergeant Barrow, I commend you for the speed with which you got everyone through the initial triage,” Major Clarkson’s sincere praised surprised Thomas when he finally reached his superior officers side. “And it was an excellent decision to get the walking wounded settled in the garden. It's very peaceful out there for them which will help keep them calm.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas murmured in response. “I just thought it would be too cluttered to bring them all inside at this moment in time. Many of them will have to sleep in the hallway as it is but once we've got these patients seem to I'll look into where else we can put them.”

“Excellent,” Major Clarkson exhaled. “I shall be busy in the operating theatre for the next couple of hours, I imagine, so you'll have to take charge out here. Keep up the good work.”

“Yes, Major Clarkson.”

“Is it what you thought it would be?”

This soft question was not directed at him but at Sybil from the young man following behind her as she moved past where Thomas stood watching his superior officer hurry out of the room.

“No,” she responded immediately whilst still focusing the majority of her attention on the latest patient she was tending to. This time it was a young man who's left arm was almost completely swathed in bandages. “No, it's more savage and more cruel than I could've imagined, but I feel useful for the first time in my life, and that must be a good thing.”

Tom’s expression was torn, obviously concerned for her but equally proud of what she was doing. There weren't many daughters of Lords ego would be willing to do such horrific and dirty work, rather they wanted the glory that came with donning a uniform but wanted to do nothing more than mop a fevered brow whilst the patient gazes longingly up at them.

They'd had one of those for all of two days before she'd decided the VAD wasn't for her.

Sybil straightened up, smiling briefly at Thomas before turning her attention towards her cousin who was standing in the centre of the room looking more than a little bit lost.

“Matthew, are you busy?”

“No, of course not,” Matthew answered immediately, hurrying to help her settle another patient with their head sloppily bandaged down onto a bed. “You're quite safe now.”

Thomas moved to stand beside Mrs Crawley who was jotting something down on the clipboard she held in her hands, all the whilst smiling reassuringly down at her patient.

“Mrs Crawley, I trust I can leave organising this ward in your capable hands?” he enquired, laying on the flattery as he knew it was the best way to get her to do what he asked. Mrs Crawley was a woman who liked to feel needed. “With Nurse Crawley’s help, of course.”

“I'd be glad to take over the organisation here, Sergeant Barrow,” she responded with a pleased smile, her eyes already bright with her new purpose. “I'll ensure that everyone is settled and that we have a list of their injuries that Major Clarkson can work from. We'll set about treating minor wounds, cuts and burns and the like, so that he doesn't have to.”

“I knew we could count on you, Mrs Crawley.”

“So you wouldn't go back?” he heard Tom enquire as he moved to check up on Lieutenant Courtenay, unable to resist the urge any more. “To your life before the war? If you could?”

“No,” Sybil answered softly, shaking her head. “No, I can never go back to that again.”

As he'd suspected Edward had been sedated and was resting peacefully amidst the chaos so Thomas didn't feel guilty as he left the main ward, moving to check up on the small ward before focusing his attention on getting all of the walking wounded settled in the garden so that their identities and injuries could be catalogued. This time the list would be beneficial to both Major Clarkson and Thomas who had the difficult task of finding them all beds.

He genuinely didn't know where they were going to put most of them.

They'd definitely been sent too many patients this time but what could they do, turn them away? This was just another factor that would benefit from Sybil's scheme to turn Downton Abbey into a convalescent hospital where men like the walking wounded could be cared for.

In the end he had no choice but to order the orderlies tent to be split in half, leaving half for the orderlies to use while the other half became a temporary ward for the overflow patients. It wasn't ideal, not enough beds even with the orderlies agreeing to share and “hot bunk” where the different shifts would take turns sleeping in the same bed. There was a still an alarming amount of men on temporary beds made of straw and blankets on the floor.

For himself he had moved his things into the supply cupboard where he would bunk down on his own nest of blankets and straw, not that he had had much time to sleep before the _incident_ with Edward so he probably wouldn't end up spending too much time in there.

“If you don't give me one of those I won't be held accountable for my actions,” Sybil announced a good few hours later when she stumbled out to collapse down beside him in their usual smoking area, reaching out for the cigarette between his lips. He surrendered it with a smile and set about lighting another for himself. “I haven't stopped since…since…”

“I know,” he chuckled softly, holding his packet of cigarettes against his chest with his stump so that he could pull one out. “They were just putting the tea urn on for the Nurses and Orderlies when I came out of here and someone was going to make up some sandwiches.”

Sybil let out an unladylike groan of delight.

They smoked side by side in silence for a long moment before Thomas finally voice a question that had filtered through his mind again and again as he had struggled to find space for everyone, struggled to make sure everyone was being properly looked after.

“Do you really think they'll let us set up a convalescent home in the house?”

Sybil blew out a long stream of smoke.

“Because I'm having trouble seeing the old battle-axe going for that...”

The loud guffaw he received in response to letting his mouth run away from him was even more unladylike than her earlier groan had been, Sybil letting out an actual snort as she turned to face him, grinning brightly as she laughed her way through repeating his words,

“ _The old battle-axe_?!”

Thomas felt his cheeks flush an unpleasantly red colour, the colour seeming to burn him.

“...apologies, I forgot who I was talking to...”

His apology did nothing to stifle her giggles.

“If you mean Granny then leave it with me,” she told him, shaking her head in merriment. Her eyes were practically sparkling with joy as she bumped her shoulder against his. “I've been getting my own way for _years_. Time for me to put that particular talent to good use.”

It was Thomas's turn to chuckle than.

They reluctantly headed back inside once they'd finished their cigarettes, stopping in the tiny kitchen for a quick cup of tea and a cheese and tomato sandwich, before heading back to the main ward. Sybil returned to her nursing duties, soothing men in pain, while Thomas made a beeline for Lieutenant Courtenay who had woken earlier or so he'd been told.

“Thomas?” Edward called out softly as he dropped down into the chair. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, reaching across to take Edwards hand gently. He gave it a gently squeeze, noting that his dressings had been changed at some point. “It's me.”

He couldn't stay long. He needed sleep. But he'd stay as long as he could.

He wouldn't let Edward feel alone or abandoned ever again.

“Tell me about your day, Thomas…”

“Well…”

~ * ~

 **A/N –** Did you really think I was going to let him die? Nope. His survival is far too important for my overall story plan. I know how it's going to end now which I honestly didn't when I started writing it originally. I'm off to France for a week of Living History (aka dressing up in my fabulous vintage clothes for a week) in our 1944 Morris C-8 Truck (called ‘ _Minty’_ ) but I am going to try and get some writing done in the evenings. I just won't be able to post anything until I'm back in the UK with access to my laptop. Comments welcome. X


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Eleven; England, 1917**

_It's funny, how important change can be in your life, no matter how big or small that change might be. Whether it be something as simple as changing the way you look or the way you act or something as drastic as changing your occupation or moving to a new town or village._

_Change, as they say, is a part of life but it isn't until much later that you realise just how much of a difference it can make to the way you feel, the way you act and the way to live._

_Some change is easier to bear that others, when the changes are made voluntarily, but a significant amount of changes appears out of nowhere through no fault of your own._

_This can take some time to get used to, your mind and your body having to adapt to circumstances outside of your own control. Losing your sight during a gas attack…or losing part of your sight and your left hand to an explosion in the middle of No-Mans-Land…_

_Sometimes it takes a while to see change as a good thing._

_It's funny, how important change can be in your life, no matter how big or small that change might be._

~ * ~

One of the things that Thomas still struggled with on a daily basis due to his injuries was slicking back his hair with pomade, creating the smart style required by the military. Before the war he'd have applied the pomade with both hands, running his fingers through the long strands of his hair, before using the comb but now he had to be a little bit more creative.

It did help that he had stopped trying to cover the worst of his facial scars with his hair.

If people had a problem with the state of the skin around his left eye then they could deal with it themselves as he had come to terms with how he now looked. He'd never be that handsome man he had once been, that simply wasn't possible, but he was by no means the gargoyle he had initially feared he would become upon waking up in the field hospital.

The scars were grotesque, yes, but they were beginning to fade. They were no longer red and angry looking, daily application of the cream he had been given aiding in soothing the skin around the unnatural ridges and dips, returning his skin almost to its natural colour.

Dipping the prongs on his comb into the little tin of pomade he studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror and began sculpting his inky black hair into his usual style, creating a deep parting above his “ _good_ ” eye before smoothing the longer strands across his forehead. He allowed them to form a natural ‘s’ shape which most men attempted to erase thinking it was too feminine but, given his personal persuasions, he quite liked the way it softened the shape of his face. The rest of his hair, however, was combed so that it lay flat and straight.

Once he was satisfied with his hair he carefully rinsed off the comb and replaced the lid on the tin of pomade. He then set about the equally difficult task of shaving away the stubble from his cheeks, thankful for the safety razor Flora had ensured he owned as he couldn't imagine using a straight razor on himself as he once had. Even with the safety razor there were still a couple of area where it was particularly challenging, where he missed being able to pull the skin taught with his other hand to make things easier. His top lip for example.

Returning to the supply cupboard which were his temporary lodgings he tidied away his things so they wouldn't be in the way, rolling up the mattress and tucking it into the corner of the room, and then picked up his cap and headed out to begin another days work. As soon as he arrived in the main ward his cap joined the others on the hat stand as, despite having to have it with him at all times, he wasn't actually required to wear it whilst at work.

“Good Morning, Sergeant.”

“Good Morning, Nurse,” he responded, offering the poor nurse who was coming off of night duty a small smile. She looked absolutely exhausted. “Anything to report? Any problems?”

“Just the usual nightmares and requests for more pain medication,” she responded, rubbing at the skin underneath her eyes as she moved aside to allow another nurse to take her place. “Although Captain Etheridge did complain about his leg several times. Bed fifteen, amputation following burns. I've asked the Major to take a look at it as soon as he can.”

Thomas nodded, confirming his understanding of her parting statement whilst silently thanking the universe for giving Lieutenant Courtenay a peaceful night. Ever since his attempted suicide the nurses reported if he so much as rolled over in the night, the straps and partition having been removed after a couple of days of calm and composed behaviour.

“Ah, Sergeant Barrow,” Major Clarkson greeted him warmly as he strode into the ward. “I'd like to see you in my office quickly once I've checked up on Captain Etheridge’s leg.”

“Yes, Major Clarkson.”

Great. What had he done now?

Making his way along the neat rows of beds, avoiding the temporary ones made out of stretchers on the floor, Thomas cracked up on Lieutenant Courtenay who was still sound asleep in his bed at the far end of the ward. He lay on his side, curled up like a child and with one hand resting on the pillow beside his head. The other hand rested on top of the blankets, the stark white bandages encircling his wrists standing out against the grey fabric.

Thomas found himself wondering what it would be like to wake up beside this man, to see his innocent face turned towards him on the pillow they shared, his wayward curls falling across his forehead as they were that morning, to have their bodies intimately entwined.

It would be perfect bliss, he knew that, but he also knew it would never happen.

“I'll need to operate again to remove the flesh that had become infected,” Major Clarkson announced regretfully from where he was stood. “Please see that the necessary preparations are made at once. I should only be ten minutes or so with Sergeant Barrow.”

“Yes, Major Clarkson.”

“Sergeant?”

Thomas looked away from the officer who had so effortlessly melted the ice around his heart, turning to face his commanding officer who gestured towards the entrance of the ward. He nodded, obediently following the older man out of the room, along the corridor where their boots echoed loudly on the flagstones and into Major Clarkson’s office.

He moved to stand in front of the large desk, his shoulder tense as he clasped his stump in his hand behind his back. Clarkson didn't even bother to sit down, merely leaned against the front of the desk only a couple of feet away from where Thomas had chosen to stand.

“As you know thanks to Mrs Crawley and Nurse Crawley's efforts we have been granted permission to transform a large part of the Abbey into a convalescent home for our wounded officers,” Clarkson announced, the subject taking Thomas slightly by surprise. Was he not here for a dressing down? “Preparations are underway for the transfer of some of our patients as well as the arrival of some from other nearby hospitals. This is scheduled to take place tomorrow and so I need to appoint someone to oversee the running of the convalescent hospital as I must remain here to see to the patients who need treatment.”

Thomas felt himself beginning to frown.

It sounded almost as though Major Clarkson were preparing to…

“I've given it a great deal of thought and have come to the conclusion that you are the best candidate we have in regards to taking on the task of running the convalescent hospital.”

“…I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You are familiar with the house, the family and the staff, Sergeant Barrow,” Major Clarkson readily explained his decision. Thomas was stunned. “Not only that but you have shown that you are perfectly capable of organising and running a hospital to suitable military standard.”

His chest swelled with pride at the genuine compliment that had just been paid to him.

Normally in the past he had had to cheat and lie in order to get the praise he had believed he deserved but this was something entirely different and as such it felt entirely different. His pride wasn't tinged with bitterness or regret. He _had_ done a bloody good job since becoming the Head Orderly at the hospital but for once he hadn't been looking for praise.

It was his job.

And didn't that must make receiving the praise all the more sweeter?

“I will be the ranking officer, of course, so you shall still report directly to me,” Major Clarkson continued. “You'll have a small team of Nurses at the convalescent home permanently but most will move between the hospital here and the Abbey as required.”

He nodded silently to show his understanding.

“I leave it up to you to select which four orderlies to take with you,” Clarkson informed him, reaching behind him in order to pick up a scrap of paper which he handed to Thomas. “I shall be making an announcement with all of the relevant information this afternoon so please ensure that you get your list to me before then. I'm placing a lot of faith in you so I trust that you won't let me down. You may return to your duties now, Sergeant Barrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas responded. “I…I shall endeavour to live up to your expectations.”

Figuring out which orderlies to bring with him didn't take too long at all and by the time Captain Etheridge was returned to the ward following his latest surgery he'd already got the short list written down and tucked safely into his tunic pocket with his cigarettes.

He'd chosen three Privates and one Corporal from the dozen orderlies under his command.

Dickie Smith, the Corporal, was a no nonsense cockney in his mid-forties and was a valuable man to have when patients became violent, mostly during their nightmares and through no fault of their own. He was built like a prized fighter and had proven to be as strong as an ox.

Thomas, handicapped as he was, would definitely have need of him.

He had chosen young Billy Rawlings simply because he still didn't trust the boy not to do something idiotically stupid in order to get himself transferred to the front. He was too young, too naïve and far too innocent to survive life in the trenches.

It would destroy him.

Paul Harrison had spent over a year at the front before being transferred back to England suffering from a nasty case of shell shock which had resulted in him losing all capability of speech. Thankfully his commanding officer hadn't branded him a coward as had happened to so many poor souls and since coming back to England he had slowly begun to improve.

He was a conscientious worker, however, and could always be trusted to complete any task given to him to the best of his ability without complaint. No job was ever left unfinished.

Lastly he'd chosen Isaiah Sykes, another older man who came from an almost inconceivably large family. He himself was one of thirteen, eleven of which had survived childhood, and had been married three times. His first wife had died in childbirth bring the first of his nine children into the world while his second wife had caught a chill and died unexpectedly only three months after giving birth to his fourth child. The current Mrs Sykes was apparently quite a bit younger than her husband and in good health, pregnant with child number ten.

He had a boisterous, cheerful personality and could raise anyone's spirits with one of his tall tales, often delighting an entire ward for over an hour with various stories about his family. There was always a smile on his weathered face and he could be relied upon to cheer even the most distraught souls. Thomas only ever had to follow the sound of laughter to find him.

Major Clarkson didn't argue against a single one of his choices.

In fact if anything he seemed impressed by the selections he had made or at least that was the vibe Thomas got as he followed the senior officer out into the hallway where as many of the staff as could be spared had been gathered to hear his “ _important announcement._ ”

“I know we all have lots to be getting on with before the patients receive their dinner so I shall be brief,” Major Clarkson announced firmly, gesturing to where Thomas had moved to stand beside Sybil in the silent group. “Sergeant Barrow will be overseeing the running of the newly created convalescent hospital up at the Abbey and will report directly to me.”

His posture corrected itself of its own accord as everyone turned to stare across at him.

“Staff Nurse Rawlings will be in charge of the medical side of things until the new matron arrives, at which time she will become her second-in-command,” Major Clarkson continued without hesitation, gesturing to the sympathetic nurse in question. “Nurses Crawley, Dustan and Bryant will be transferring to the convalescent home to join the team of nurses being sent from London. At this time we have not had a confirmed date for their arrival so be prepared for a hectic few days, ladies, until they arrive.” The three nurses in question, Sybil in particular, seemed happy with this decision. “Corporal Smith and Privates Rawlings, Harrison and Sykes will be transferring to the convalescent hospital to act as orderlies. Unfortunately at this time we do not expect to receive anyone to replace them here at the hospital, nor can we expect any more orderlies to aid you in your duties at the Abbey.”

These four looked both pleased and annoyed all in a fraction of a second, pleased with the transfer and the possibilities it would bring but annoyed by the apparent lack of assistance.

“I have already informed those at the house of these duty assignments,” Major Clarkson concluded, explaining the brief stop off in his office to make a quick telephone call on their way to the meeting. Thomas could easily imagine the look on Mr Carson’s face when he'd heard. “These changes will be effective immediately as of tomorrow morning. Thank you.”

To say that Lieutenant Courtenay was beyond relieved to hear that Thomas would be transferring to the convalescent hospital with him was something of an understatement. He'd been so stunned by relief that he'd dropped his spoon back into his bowl of soup, splashing the steaming liquid all over his blanket and the napkin tucked into his collar.

“Truly?” he demanded breathlessly as Thomas hurried to clean up the mess he'd made. “I don't…I don't have to go somewhere without you? You're coming with me to…to the…”

“Yes,” Thomas interrupted quickly. “As will Nurse Crawley.”

“Thank you…” Lieutenant Courtenay exhaled deeply. “Oh, _thank you…_ ”

It was all hands to the pumps the following day, those who were transferring packing up their kit and being ferried up to the Abbey by a helpful farmer whilst arrangements were made for the ambulances bringing the men from other hospitals to collect the patients from the village hospital once they'd dropped off their initial charges. It would mean that they wouldn't have to rely on the generosity of the local farmers and their carts to move them.

Climbing down from the cart Thomas picked up his heavy kitbag and joined the others as they made their way towards the grand front doors of the Abbey, a little voice in the back of his head all but squealing at the thought of how them entering through the main doors would cause Mr Carson’s blood to boil. Who was he to pass up such a rare opportunity?

Sybil led the way, of course, and Thomas himself brought up the rear.

“Why are you coming in this way?”

Smiling to himself Thomas turned to face the owner of the disapproving voice, finding Mr Carson approaching rapidly wearing a thunderous expression. Either the butler hadn't noticed the others or he'd dismissed them in his desire to focus his ire on Thomas. Had he noticed Sybil's presence Thomas knew he would have forced himself to be more polite.

Speaking of his friend she looked almost as amused by the situation as Thomas felt.

“I'm the manager here now, Mr Carson,” Thomas couldn't risk pointing out, resting his kit back on the floor as he gestured around them with his stump. “Or had you forgotten?”

“No, I have not forgotten,” Mr Carson harrumphed with annoyance, looking down his long nose at Thomas. No, the totalitarian butler definitely didn't approve of his new posting. “And will you be moving into your old room, or should we prepare a guest bedroom?”

“I'll sleep in my old room, thanks,” Thomas responded cheerfully, already looking forward to the prospect of settling into the familiar room. After all it would be better than a trench, a tent or a supply cupboard. “I've got four male orderlies to house as well as the nurses. Will there be room for them up on the servant’s floor or should I make other arrangements?”

“We are currently without footmen due to the war and have only the one hall boy, as I'm sure you are no doubt aware, Mr Carson all but snarled down at him. Thomas hadn't been aware, actually, but he didn't let that show on his face. “I'm sure we shall find suitable accommodation for them without disturbing myself, Mr Lang or Henry, the hall boy.”

“Wonderful, Mr Carson,” Thomas exclaimed cheerfully, looking around at the _Main Hall_ which had been stripped bare, even the carpet had been removed so that the floorboards were visible. “So, are we ready for the big invasion? 'Cause they'll be here at tea time.”

Mr Carson bristled indignantly.

“We'll have to be ready, won't we, Thomas?”

“We will, Mr Carson,” Thomas agreed, picking up his kitbag and moving to join the others St the foot of the stairs. He paused before reaching them. “Oh, and it's Sergeant Barrow now.”

Carson’s glare could have curdled milk.

“Nurse Crawley, I assume you shall be sleeping in your old bedroom as well,” Thomas spoke clearly, delighting at the choking noise which came from behind him. Sybil, giggling, nodded and began leading the way upstairs. “I can lead the orderlies up to the male quarters but do you think you could find a maid to take your fellow nurses up to their accommodation?”

“Oh, I telephoned and asked mama if they could stay in the guest rooms,” Sybil responded with a bright smile. “It made more sense, you see, as there are still quite a few female servants in the house so I doubt there are many spare beds upstairs. Penny and Charlotte will have to share but you'll have your own room, Agatha. Mama said she'd sort out rooms for the new nurses when they arrived but the Green and Blue rooms are ready for you.”

“What an excellent idea, Nurse Crawley,” Thomas chuckled, imagining their reactions to the small but grand rooms they'd been given. “I shall leave them in your capable hands. Half an hour to settle in and then we shall start preparing the wards. Gentlemen, follow me.”

His room looked as though it hadn't been touched since he vacated it at the start of the war.

Settling in took him significantly less than the half an hour he'd allowed, placing his new things where his old belongings had once sat and hanging up his spare bits of uniform. At least the sheets had been changed recently, the familiar scent of the soap filling the air.

Unlatching the window he opened it just enough to allow some fresh air to move around the small room before picking up his cap and heading back downstairs, confident that between the four of them the orderlies would be able to retrace their steps back to the _Main Hall_ downstairs when they'd finished settling into the rooms they were sharing.

From what Major Clarkson had said both the _Drawing Room_ and the _Small Library_ had been transformed into wards whilst the _Library_ was to be split in two with a temporary screen, the military half to become a recreation area for the patients. On the first floor the two largest guest bedrooms had been turned into smaller wards for patients who could manage the stairs so he guessed that Sybil had had the nurses placed into the two guest rooms at the end of the corridor where her bedroom and Lady Edith's were. They were much smaller.

The _Main Hall_ , stripped bare as it was, would serve as the patient’s dining room whilst the nurses and orderlies would use the servant’s dining room down in the basement. He needed to speak to Mrs Patmore about that, actually, as he needed to sort out the complicated schedule of various mealtimes that they'd need to keep with the cook. It wasn't going to be easy juggling the family’s mealtimes, the servant’s mealtimes, the patient’s mealtimes and the nurses/orderlies mealtimes but they would have to find a way to manage somehow.

No doubt she would appreciate the extra food which would be delivered weekly as per the army regulations regarding a convalescent hospital. Everything was difficult to come by for civilians these days, what with the military requisitioning everything they could get hold of.

The _Morning Room_ , _Dining Room_ and the family’s private bedrooms, dressing rooms and studies were out of bounds for all hospital staff and patients, something which Thomas would be ensuring they understood completely. He might not work for the Crawley’s any more but that didn't mean he'd let people go poking their noses into thrust private things.

Making his way through the hospital rooms he hummed with approval at the layout of the two wards, the beds having been carefully laid out to allow free movement around them despite the tight quarters. They'd certainly worked hard to squeeze in as many as possible.

It was in the library that he came across Robert, the Earl of Grantham, sitting at his writing desk bent over what appeared to be a rather long letter using multiple sheets of paper. The room had yet to be split in two, the screens required having arrived along with them, and Thomas wondered if his previous employer knew about the planned use for his _sanctuary_.

His attempt to leave without being noticed was thwarted by a creaking floorboard.

“Thomas?”

“It's Sergeant Barrow now, your lordship,” Thomas responded automatically, standing perfectly still as he watched the older man blatantly study him for a long moment, paying particular attention to his various scars. His stump received the most attention, of course, and Robert did nothing to conceal his horrified expression. “I hope we haven't caused too much of a disruption for you, taking over so many of your rooms for the hospital.”

“No, it's…it's the least we can do…” Robert murmured, pushing himself out of his chair and meeting Thomas’ gaze as he held out his hand. “I knew you'd been injured but I had no idea…the picture in Lady Cora’s magazine was too out of focus to really see any detail at all.”

Thomas was surprised when his old employers hurried expression faded into one of sympathetic understanding as they shook hands briefly, his grip firm yet gentle all at once.

“Congratulations are in order, of course,” the Earl of Grantham continued softly, glancing briefly at the distinctive ribbon on Thomas's tunic. “I've never had the privilege of knowing a _Victoria Cross_  recipient until now. You've done us all proud, Tho…Sergeant Barrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas responded, using the military title afforded to the other man due to the uniform he wore. He'd never see active service in this war but he was still an officer. “I have to admit I wasn't thinking much about medals at the time. Just about staying alive.”

“Understandable.”

Thomas found himself glancing at the ribbons adorning the officers own tunic.

He wore two campaign medals, the _Queens South Africa Medal_ , the _Kings South Africa Medal_ alongside the _King Edward VII Coronation Medal_ and the _King George V Coronation Medal_. Despite having seen active combat in Africa, the _Cape Colony_ clasp confirming that, the officer had never been awarded any sort of medal for bravery although Thomas knew from hearing the Earl speak of his military career that he had been mentioned in dispatches four times. It made him smile to think he had technically “one-upped” his former employer.

“I should probably be getting on,” he eventually mumbled awkwardly. “The first patients will be arriving shortly and I still have things to get organised. If you'll excuse me, sir?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Robert grunted softly, coming back to himself and offering Thomas a somewhat strained smile. “Let us know if there's anything we can do to help, Sergeant.”

Thomas nodded politely to the older man before heading out of the room and into the _Main Hall_ where Sybil was talking to the nurses and orderlies, explaining the layout of the house to them as best as one who had grown up above stairs could. He would have to explain the hidden aspects of the property later, show them all the servants passages which would allow them to travel between floors and rooms quickly and without being seen as well as the basement level. For now, though, that could wait as they had plenty of work to do.

“Corporal Smith, could you get this room set up as an appropriate dining hall with the supplies we've been sent with? I believe you'll find them leaning against the wall outside,” Thomas instructed the other man as he joined the group. “Take Sykes and Harrison with you. Rawlings, I want you to assist our nurses in putting the final touches to the wards.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“I shall be downstairs organising the meals with Mrs Patmore, the cook here at Downton Abbey, but I'll be back to oversee the arrival of the patients,” he announced calmly. “Staff Nurse Rawlings, I leave you in charge up here for the moment. Let's get this place ready.”

Sybil smiled across at him before following the other nurses into _Ward One_ , also known as the _Drawing Room_ and his team of orderlies disappeared quickly, muttering amongst themselves about how they'd definitely fallen on their feet being posted to the convalescent hospital. He could understand that. Downton Abbey was a stunning building to perceive.

Heading down to the basement level he was met by the familiar atmosphere of barely controlled chaos as he nodded towards the people he had once worked with, friends and enemies alike, as they snatched a quick sit down with a cup of tea in the servants hall and made his way along the narrow flagstone corridor to the madhouse that was the kitchen.

“…do you call that straight, girl?” Mrs Patmore's shrill voice greeted him as he stepped into the large room, coming to a halt just inside the door. The enormous table was positively covered with sandwiches waiting to be cut into squares by the kitchen maids, one of whom was Mrs Patmore’s latest victim. “I've seen straighter edges on a banana! Straight, girl!”

“Yes, Mrs Patmore. Sorry, Mrs Patmore.”

“We have injured officers joining us today and I won't have them believing that I run a substandard kitchen by offering them afternoon tea with crooked sandwiches,” Mrs Patmore snapped. “Daisy, how are those savoury scones for the family’s luncheon coming?”

“They're nearly ready to come out of the oven, Mrs Patmore,” Daisy reported obediently before jumping as she spotted Thomas by the door. “Hello Thomas. What brings you here?”

“I've come to discuss how the hospital mealtimes will be arranged around the family and servant mealtimes with Mrs Patmore,” he answered simply as the cook in question left her spot looking over the poor kitchen maids shoulder as she work and came to stand before him. “I'm hoping we can figure out a way to make things as simple as possible for us all.”

Mrs Patmore hummed in approval.

“I've already been speaking to Mrs Hughes and her ladyship about that very subject,” she responded, causing Thomas to arch an eyebrow in surprise. They'd only known for certain that they were coming for a day although they must have been thinking things through since they'd initial agreed to the scheme. “Breakfast and luncheon will be no problem as whatever the family have I can serve up a simpler version for the patients at the same time with the help of the nurses and orderlies of course. Dinner might be a little bit more challenging although only when the family is entertaining. Once again a simpler version can be provided for the patients at the same time as the family eat theirs in the dining room.”

“This all sounds very logical and mercifully simple, Mrs Patmore,” Thomas admitted, pleased that their ideas were very similar to his own. “Are you sure it won't be too much trouble?”

“With the money coming in from the army I've been able to take on another kitchen maid so we'll be able to cope just fine, thank you very much,” she responded somewhat peevishly. Thomas wasn't surprise or offended by her tone. “Regarding the nurses and orderlies meals; will they be able to join us at the servant’s meals or will they require a separate time?”

“For the most part they should be able to join the servants for their meals,” Thomas conceded, his answer obviously pleasing the redheaded cook. “However those on the night shift shan't want to have dinner for breakfast and vice versa which may be problematic.”

“I'm sure we'll be able to work something out.”

“And there will always have to be someone on duty in the wards so those persons may be either early or late to the meal, depending on when they can slip away,” Thomas continued, thinking of the amount of times he'd barely had time to snatch a cup of tea and a bit of bread and dripping before the cooks closed up. Sometimes he hadn't been able to manage that. “But that's something we can work out once we've got the daily routine working nice and smoothly. No point worrying over something which might not actually be a problem.”

Mrs Patmore made a sound of approval before cutting herself off with a frown, obviously hesitating as she thought of the best way to put whatever had just crossed her mind.

“Where will Lady Sybil be dining?”

Ah.

“Nurse Crawley will be dining with her fellow nurses unless her presence is required by her family,” Thomas answered as diplomatically as he could having already heard from Sybil herself that she refused, point blank, to dine with her family every night. She was a nurse now, she had said firmly, not a naïve debutante. “I hope this won't cause any problems?”

“No,” Mrs Patmore mumbled, surprised by his answer. “No problem.”

“Wonderful,” Thomas responded brightly. Contrary to her response Mrs Patmore definitely had a problem with Sybil eating downstairs but she'd never voice her problem, at least not to him. He imagined he'd be hearing from Mr Carson sooner rather than later. “Well that covers everything for the moment so I shall leave you in peace and return upstairs.”

Returning to the ground floor he head the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel signalling the arrival of the first ambulance full of patients and, ignoring the unexpected appearance of the Dowager Countess who looked very unhappy with the current situation, he picked up his clipboard which held a list of the patients they were expecting and followed the nurses as they hurried out of the building, the orderlies he'd selected already waiting outside.

“How many are there?”

Mrs Crawley’s voice was almost drowned out by the painful sound the ambulances brakes made as it came to a stop, the back opening a second later to allow the first of the patients to emerge. Where she'd come from Thomas wasn't entirely sure but Major Clarkson was beside her, offering Thomas a nod as they got to work helping people inside the Abbey.

“Thirty-six,” Major Clarkson answered. “Although there may be a few arriving tomorrow.”

“Thirty-six?” Mrs Crawley repeated, surprised. “Right…well…”

For someone who claimed to be a logical thinker, calm in situations just like this she had the appearance of a deer caught in the headlights. Even the rest of the Crawley family, untrained as they were, were reacting more favourably to the situation and welcoming the patients.

“Quick as you can, gentlemen,” Major Clarkson ordered clearly before turning to the man sat behind the steering wheel. “Driver, use that road here and go straight into the hospital. You'll find the patients there ready to be loaded into the vehicle. Please, make haste.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This way, please, gentlemen,” Robert piped up, his tone both welcoming and gentle. “We have beds for all of you, not to mention a cup of tea and some freshly made sandwiches.”

This news went down _very_ well and Thomas could understand that, given how far these men had travelled. Some had barely been at the other hospital a couple of days after returning from the field hospital they'd been evacuated to in France so a cup of tea would still feel like a little piece of heaven. He wasn't sure how the dainty sandwiches would go down with some of the men who, although officers, had been given battlefield commissions.

“Don't worry,” Sybil reassured the young officer she was escorting inside slowly, placing a hand on his arm as he struggled to navigate the steps with his crutches. “We'll see to you.”

“Major Bryant?” Thomas called out as he approached the group of ‘ _walking wounded_ ’ who had been escorted inside and told to wait there until they were told where to go, pausing as he waited for the officer in question to indicate himself. He was a handsome man, Major Bryant, and judging by the care he took in his appearance and his somewhat haughty expression he knew it too. “You're in the _Armada Bedroom._ Do you mind the stairs?”

“Depends on what I find at the top.”

Oh, yes, Thomas could already sense that this man was going to be trouble.

There was nothing he could do about it, however, as he had to continue assigning them to the various bedrooms and wards. Not even when he saw the Major wink up at the new maid, Ethel, who giggled as she continued polishing the bannister with her little cloth.

“Captain Hancock? You're also in the _Armada Bedroom,_ ” Thomas continued, offering the young man a reassuring smile when he held up his hand. “As are Captain Grace and Lieutenant Marks, so long as none of you have any problems with the stairs. No, excellent.”

Lieutenant Courtenay arrived at the same as their three other cases of gas blindness and Thomas personally escorted all four of the, to their beds in the far corner or _Ward One_ , getting each of them settled but leaving Edward until last so that he could pay particular attention to him. He was directly below a large window so would be able to feel the warmth of the sun on his face even what he was stuck inside the building for whatever reason.

His relieved smile and peaceful expression made Thomas's heart thump rapidly in his chest.

“Thomas?” a soft voice called out as he left the ward, intending on checking on the officers who had been housed up on the first floor of the building. It was Daisy and she looked rather flustered. “You need to come back downstairs. There's…there's a bit of a problem…”

“A problem?”

She nodded, her eyes flickering towards the servants stairs.

Frowning he altered his direction of travel and followed her down the stairs and into the servants hall where almost everyone seemed to be gathered in front of Mrs Crawley.

“…and I, of course, shall be in charge of the day to day running of the hospital.”

What?

“But _I_ am to supervise the medical staff…”

“Overseen by me,” Mrs Crawley shrugged him off calmly before turning her attention back to the gathered servants, seemingly ignorant of their shocked expressions. Thomas grit his teeth, holding back a snarl of annoyance. “And Carson, I'm relying on you to make that…”

“What's going on?” Cora, the Countess of Grantham, demanded sharply as she entered the room followed by an anxious looking Mrs Hughes who instinctively moved to stand by Daisy.

“I was arranging the household duties where they overlap with the duties of the nursing staff,” Mrs Crawley answered, smiling briefly toward Cora. “Now, Carson, as I was saying…”

“Shall we continue this upstairs?”

Oh, Cora was definitely annoyed with Mrs Crawley's behaviour.

“Well, I've made some charts and…”

Mrs Crawley was silenced by the most severe look Thomas had ever seen Cora produce.

“Of course.”

The tense atmosphere didn't abate even after the two woman had returned to the ground floor of the house, no doubt heading to Lady Cora’s Sitting Room to continue the discussion.

“Did you say you were the manager or the referee?”

Thomas couldn't help but smirk in Ethel's direction even as Miss O’Brien turned to face him.

“You can see what we're up against.”

“Don't worry, we'll find a solution,” Thomas reassured not only his old colleague but everyone currently gathered in the servant’s hall. “For now let's leave it in her ladyship’s capable hands. I'm sure she'll make us all aware of any changes that need to be instigated.”

Offering both Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes a polite nod he delighted in seeing their confused expressions, obviously thrown by his professional demeanour, and slowly began making his way back upstairs. They'd never dealt with Sergeant Barrow, only Thomas the footman and they certainly hadn't had any experience of him post-injuries and wartime experience.

He'd learned that there were other ways, significantly more honourable and respectful, to garner the attention he craved. Of course there were still times that his skills in lying and scheming could be a useful asset but there was a time and a place and that this wasn't it.

No, now was the time for controlled efficiency.

“Sergeant Barrow? I need you.”

“Coming, Major Clarkson.”

Now was the time to show them all what he could really do.

~ * ~

 **A/N** This wasn't where I had planned to leave this chapter but it just kept getting longer and longer so I've tagged the last little bit onto the beginning of the next chapter. I had a wonderful week off in France but didn't get a single bit of writing done (too busy having fun touring Brittany in our collection of 1940’s vehicles) but I'm getting lots done now. Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. Comments  & Suggestions welcome as always. X


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Twelve; England, 1917**

“How does it feel?”

Thomas grimaced, glancing down at the artificial hand which Major Clarkson had just finished strapping into place. It was made mostly of wood, beautifully crafted to look like a human hand, with a few metal components which would allow him to more the artificial digits, albeit manually with his other hand and only changing the appearance of the hand from an awkward looking fist with the fingers too straight to an unnaturally stiff open palm, and a collection of stiff leather straps and buckles which were used to affix it to his stump.

“Heavy,” he answered after a moment of contemplation. “And a couple of the straps are pinching my skin a bit but that's probably because the leather straps just need breaking in.”

Major Clarkson nodded, humming thoughtfully whilst studying the prosthetic analytically.

Thomas couldn't help but smirk to himself. His was the first such prosthetic to be fitted at either of Downton's hospitals and although he knew logically that he was being used as a test subject to see how it would perform he couldn't help but enjoy the fact that he was coming before the entitled gentleman and officers under his care for the first time in his life.

“It'll take some time to get used to,” Major Clarkson warned him as he stepped back, finally looking away from the artificial limb and meeting Thomas’s gaze. “You'll need to watch out for it rubbing and creating sores on your skin. Keep me updated on how you get on with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pulling the sleeve of his tunic down to cover his forearm and the straps now covering most of it he saluted the officer, for once actually putting the proper amount of respect behind it, and exited the room. The artificial limb really was heavy and within moments of leaving the hospital and heading back along the path which would return him to the Abbey his arm was already beginning to ache. He'd have to build up his muscles if he wanted to wear the prosthetic as regularly as he would like to and spent his journey coming up with a list of simple exercises that would do the job, similar to the ones they prescribed for the patients.

Searching out Lieutenant Courtenay upon his return to the convalescent hospital he found the handsome young officer engaged in a game of chess with another patient, thankfully an honest fellow who was helping Courtenay to move his pieces as he desired without altering them in order to make the game easier for himself. Thomas smiled, loitering in the doorway for a moment before deciding he could show the Lieutenant his new limb some other time rather than interrupt his fun and set off to find the other person he wanted to see it – Sybil.

Finding her reorganising the store cupboard in order to fit in the latest delivery of medical supplies he knocked on the doorframe of the room which had once been a place for the servants to prepare the tea trays for the family with his new hand, grinning to himself as she looked across at him with a frown upon hearing the hollow sound of wood striking wood. It took her a long moment to notice the wooden limb poking out from the end of his sleeve.

“Oh!” she gasped upon realising what she was seeing, setting down the wooden crate of bandages so that she could cradle the artificial limb in her hands once she reached him. Allowing her to study the prosthetic closely Thomas stepped into the room, taking them both out of the hallway where anyone could chance upon them. “I'm sorry, Thomas. I'd forgotten you were to be fitted with this today? How does it feel? It's a bit heavy, isn't it?”

“It is, but I'm sure I'll get used to it,” he responded, smiling even more as she picked up on the same fault he had. A simple flick of his foot caused the door to shut. “It's better than a stump at any rate and should make life a bit easier…once I've gotten used to it, that is…”

Sybil hummed thoughtfully, nodding as she ran her fingers across the wooden knuckles and the hinges attaching the four fingers to the main part of the hand. After silently asking permission with her eyes, permission which Thomas gave with a minuscule nod, she carefully folded each wooden digit down towards the palm of the artificial hand, snapping he thumb across last which acted as a sort of lock. It wasn't an easy move nor could it be done quickly as each individual hinge was spring-loaded so that the fingers retained their outstretched position naturally, not falling back and forth whenever he moved the limb.

“Such a clever design,” she murmured softly as she unlocked the thumb and allowed each finger to return to their ‘natural’ position. “I'm so pleased for you, Thomas.”

He didn't doubt her words but her voice lacked some of its usual passion, almost sounding as though she were suffering from a bought of melancholy which was unusual for the young woman, more like something her older sister would fall into and had on numerous occasion.

Although saying that Lady Edith seemed that changed since the outbreak of war having chanced upon finding something which brought her more pleasure than her almost desperate search for a suitable husband and sabotaging Lady Mary's plans – being helpful.

“Everything alright, Sybil?”

The sigh which immediately followed his question was enough of an answer for him, confirming that something was definitely wrong with the young woman who had unexpectedly become the closest friend he could ever remember having, even as a child.

“Family?” he enquired when she made no move to answer him. She bit her lip but shook her head, releasing his prosthetic limb and returning to the crate she'd been unpacking. “Tom?”

Another sigh of confirmation.

“What's he done now?”

“Has Tom ever mentioned his cousin to you?” she asked, surprising him as he'd expected it to be something to do with their blossoming romance. “About what happened to him?”

Thomas frowned, thinking back on any and all conversations he'd had with the chauffeur. Her could recall him telling them about his older brother and his younger sisters, all four of them, and sharing many lessons learnt from his hardworking parents but never a cousin.

“Not that I can recall. Why?”

“He was killed last year during the Easter Rising,” she explained softly, her hands fluttering nervously across the contents of the crate. “Tom said that he wasn't even involved in the uprising, that he was just walking down the road when a British soldier saw him and shot him dead. His family, Tom’s family, were told it was _because he was probably a rebel_.”

“He's never said anything…”

Thomas hadn't been at the Abbey then, had still be convalescing at the field hospital, but the Irishman hadn't mention anything about the events in Ireland since he'd been back.

“When he got his call-up papers he hatched this ridiculous plan to get back at the British Army by refusing to touch a weapon once he was in uniform,” Sybil explained all in one breath, rushing her way through the explanation as quickly as possible as she trembled. “Even though he could've gone to prison. He said it would've been worth it. Only he's been turned down on medical grounds, a heart murmur, so now he's angry with no way to…to…”

Thomas was alarmed to see tears welling up in her eyes and reacted the only way he could, striding across the room and taking her into his arms just as the tears spilled down her face.

“I tried talking him down but he's just…so _angry_ …” she mumbled through her tears, pressing her face into his chest. The first time he'd comforted her as she'd cried over Tom Branson all those weeks ago it had been a rather uncomfortable experience for him given his aversion to shoeing or dealing with emotions. Now it was almost instinctive for him to murmur soft nothings in her ear, to hold her close and rock her gently from side to side. “Thomas…”

When had he become such a…such a softy?

“Tom’s a hot-head,” he murmured softly, rubbing her back with his real hand whilst his new hand rested against the back of her neck. “It's not like it's ever been kept a secret. He's passionate about the things he cares about which includes you, Sybil. He'll come to his senses…eventually…and you'll be there for him. At the moment he's just taking his anger and frustration out on the people around him which, unfortunately, was you this time.”

“But what if he tries to do something?” she bemoaned, her hands moving to clutch at the collar of his tunic. “He said if he couldn't get them one way, he'd get them another. What if he gets it in his head to do something and he gets arrested? Sent to prison. Killed?”

The answer, when it came to him was painfully simple,

“Then we'll stop him.”

He held her until he calmed, offered her the use of his handkerchief and then helped her finish the task he had interrupted with his arrival, trying out his new hand as he did so.

It was _definitely_ going to make his life easier once he'd gotten used to it.

Throughout the course of the day numerous people, patients, nurses and members of the household staff alike, commented on his new hand. Most were fascinated by it although a couple of the maids were genuinely frightened of it, claiming it “wasn't natural” much to everyone's amusement.

A lot of the patients with missing limbs were openly envious of him.

“Once your wounds have sufficiently healed then you shall be given the opportunity to have a similar prosthetic fitted,” he reassured numerous young men who expressed a longing for a way to recover some of the freedom they'd lost, particularly those who had lost multiple limbs. “I was merely in the right condition at the right time to be used as a test subject.”

Lieutenant Courtenay spent almost a full twenty minutes exploring every inch of the artificial limb with is fingers, asking questions about it softly as he used his sense of touch to replace his lost ability to see. He wasn't the only one to manually examine the wooden hand but he was by far the most thorough, his ministrations actually causing Thomas to blush.

“Sergeant Barrow?”

Looking up from the hands tracing the paths of the various leather straps he hoped that the young nurse didn't notice his blush or, if she did, respected him enough not to mention it.

“Yes, Nurse Stafford?”

“Major Clarkson has requested that you join him in the library for a meeting with Captain Crawley and members of the family. It sounded ever so important and I think that…”

“Thank you, Nurse Stafford. If you could take over the bed checks I was performing?”

“Oh,” the young woman flushed almost to the point of turning purple at having had her speculation so sharply interrupted. She didn't mean to be but Nurse Stafford had a bit of a habit of listening to gossip and making a mountain out of a mole hill, turning even the most innocent of circumstances into the end of the world. “Yes, Sergeant Barrow. Of course…”

Courtenay cleared his throat, removing his hands from Thomas’s arm.

“Thank you for allowing me to see…to touch your artificial hand, Sergeant,” he murmured as politely as he always did when he was aware that they weren't alone. “It's very interesting.”

“Your welcome, sir,” Thomas murmured in response, aware that Nurse Stafford was loitering at the next bed pretending to be working but instead listening to their every word. “I shall keep you informed as to how I'm getting on with it. Now, if you would excuse me?”

“Of course…”

Hurrying out of the ward Thomas paused for a moment outside the door to the library, willing his cheeks to return to their normal colour, before he knocked sharply on the heavy wooden door and entered. As expected he found Major Clarkson, Captain Crawley and His Lordship inside already in the middle of a serious discussion and rather unexpectedly he also found himself facing Her Ladyship, Mrs Crawley and Mr Carson. Only Mr Carson seemed to be content to remain on the side lines of the conversation until he was called upon to speak.

“Ah, Sergeant Barrow, thank you for joining us,” Major Clarkson murmured, beckoning Thomas over to stand beside him much to Mr Carson’s obvious displeasure. Oddly the Major seemed relieved to have him there. “We have just learned that the convalescent hospital is to be included on General Strutt’s tour of the county which is being organised by Captain Crawley. We are currently in the process of working out the details of his visit which you will need to be aware of so as to make the necessary preparations regarding the hospital itself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Crawley cleared his throat.

“I'm afraid I must return to the General so I shall leave everything in your capable hands,” he murmured politely, smiling at his various family members before offering Major Clarkson a quick salute as his rank demanded. “I shall see you in three days for the visit if not before.”

Mr Carson, predictably, escorted him to the door before returning to the room.

“If they arrive at five as is the plan we'll walk him around the wards, then show him the recovering men at play, and after that, a fairly grand dinner,” His Lordship murmured decisively, his words receiving nods of approval from everyone who was entitled to give one. Mr Carson and Thomas remained perfectly still, their stiff yet natural postures almost identical through years of service. “Damn. I should have told Matthew about the dinner before he left. Never mind, I'll telephone him this evening and tell them to bring mess kit.”

Mr Carson hummed thoughtfully.

“That is my challenge, my lord,” he murmured, his voice resonating around the room as it always did. “How to make the dinner sufficiently grand with no footmen in the house.”

 _Ah, yes,_ Thomas thought to himself with a quickly suppressed smirk, _the ongoing saga of having no footmen in the house. Such a disgrace, Mr Carson. Why would men want to serve their country when they could open doors, polish shoes, carry trays and serve at dinner?_

Even His Lordship seemed to have grown tired of Mr Carson’s grumbling,

“Plenty of people give dinners without footmen.”

“Not people who entertain Sir Herbert Strutt,” Mr Carson responded, looking as though he'd been slapped with a wet fish as his voice took on an aggrieved tone. _“Hero of the Somme.”_

Thomas frowned.

He'd spent the majority of his time in France at the Somme and he couldn't remember seeing or even hearing about this supposed _‘Hero of the Somme’_ which left him to suspect that this particular hero hadn't ever ventured much further than the safety of headquarters.

Still he was a General, a Lieutenant General to be precise, and as such was due a certain amount of respect no matter what Thomas’s personal opinion of the supposed hero was.

“I'm sure he'll have seen worse things at the front than a dinner with no footmen.”

It was clear that Mrs Crawley was trying to help calm the situation however given the tense atmosphere between the two women currently sitting as far apart from each other as possible she only succeeded in fanning the flames of the current issue, making it even worse.

“Carson only wants to show the General proper respect,” Her Ladyship all but snapped, shooting an ice cold glare across at the woman she considered to be an _interfering busybody_ if Miss O’Brien’s information was to be believed. “We will not criticise him for that.”

“Indeed, we will not,” Major Clarkson murmured respectfully, stepping in to diffuse the tension in his own interfering way. He had years of practise dealing with tense situations such as these under his belt, his soft tone of voice sounding completely deferential so as not to offend either of the two women whilst effectively ending their argument before it could escalate further. “But I think Lord Grantham's plan is a good one, with or without footmen.”

It worked, nipping their argument in the bud, but unfortunately neither woman could resist needling each other further as Her Ladyship spoke up once more on a different matter,

“Matthew informed me that Miss Swire is coming down from London for it.”

“Really?” Mrs Crawley reacted with genuine surprise. “He never said so to me...”

“Does he need your permission?”

Thomas noticed that both His Lordship and Mr Carson looked very uncomfortable even as Major Clarkson floundered, searching for another way to placate the two women. He remained silent, expression blank, despite the fact that he was thoroughly enjoying the unexpected entertainment he was being permitted to witness. The upper classes really were no different from the rest of them, holding petty grudges and taking stabs at each other.

Obviously hurt by Her Ladyship's caustic response Mrs Crawley turned her attention back to Major Clarkson even as she swallowed, biting her top lip and blinking away genuine tears.

Eventually she had composed herself enough to announce as haughtily as she could,

“I think I should go around with him.”

Thomas nearly groaned at the prospect.

Yes, he felt a bit sorry for the woman so out of her depth and obviously desperate to feel needed that she had to stick her nose into everyone's business, but he couldn't imagine a worse fate for the General than to be regaled by Mrs Crawley’s many personal opinions.

Major Clarkson quickly leapt back into the first,

“You and Lady Grantham will both come with us.”

Mrs Crawley seemed genuinely confused as to why the other woman should be there.

“But won't you want to talk about treatments?”

“The treatments...” Major Clarkson agreed with her before turning to smile across at Her Ladyship who, if possible, sat up even straighter in her seat. “ _And_ the house itself.”

Thomas smiled.

“Will three days be enough to get everything ready?” His Lordship enquired, directing the question at both Mr Carson and Thomas himself, the former of which nodded whilst murmuring something about ‘it having to be enough.’ “Thomas? Sorry, Sergeant Barrow?”

“We'll have the hospital fit for such an important visit in no time at all, Your Lordship,” he reassured his former employer who nodded, satisfied with both of the answers he'd received. Thomas turned to face Major Clarkson, keeping his expression completely neutral. “Did you need me for anything else, Sir? If not I'd like to begin making preparations.”

“No, that should be all for now, Sergeant,” his Commanding Officer reassured him, nodding sharply so as to give Thomas permission to leave. “You'll be kept informed of any changes.”

“Thank you, sir,” he hummed respectfully, saluting sharply before offering the rest of the room an ever so polite nod. “If you'll please excuse me, I have work to be getting on with.”

As he was leaving the room he couldn't help but overhear His Lordships bemused comment,

“Hard to believe that's the same man as used to work here as a footman…”

 _That's because I'm not the same man that I was when I worked here as a footman,_ he thought to himself as he made his way along to the store cupboard where he collected a clipboard, pencil and a couple of sheets of paper. The rest of his day was spent moving around the hospital making detailed notes about what needed to be done to each room before General Strutt arrived to view them. Mostly it was simple mundane tasks, making sure that they were practically sparkling in terms of their cleanliness, but in other cases he wanted to do a quick rearrange of the layout so that the General would be able to move about with ease rather than having to work his way around the obstacles like they did.

Dinner, for both the patients and the medical staff, came and went without a hitch.

As he wasn't covering the night shift that night Thomas retired to his room on the top floor of the grand building, stripping out of his uniform before removing the prosthetic. His skin was red raw in a couple of places and he made sure to massage some of the cream he used to soften up the various scars covering his body into those areas but other than that it had worked beautifully all day. One thing he might suggest was creating some sort of shoulder harness to keep the whole thing firmly affixed to his stump so that the leather straps wouldn't need to be so tight about his elbow as that was where the skin had been pinched.

He moved through his nightly ablutions, washing away the sweat and dirt of the day, and changed into his military issue pyjamas which left a lot to be desired in terms of comfort but certainly did the job, the left sleeve having been neatly shortened by a couple of inches so that his stump was clearly visible and therefore able to be used when necessary without the thick flannelette fabric getting in the way. Sybil had made the alterations for him, working just as diligently and as neatly as she had when she'd seen his badges of rank onto his tunic.

Finally content with the state of his body he drew back the curtain, opened the small window situated high up on the lone exterior wall of the small room, turned off the electric light and slipped in between the cold bedsheets. When he'd first moved back into the room he'd lived in as a footman he'd found it almost impossible to sleep despite the familiarity of the surrounding and it wasn't until he started opening the window, allowing the cold air and the sounds of the night to filter in that he was finally able to sleep under the moonlight.

For once he drifted off into a blissfully dreamless sleep, no twisted memories of his time at the front or even what-if scenarios about his life in service to disturb him so when he was dragged from his peaceful sleep in the early hours of the morning by the sound of someone screaming the house down he was less than impressed. However in the time it took him to figure out just who was screaming he'd gone from annoyed to concerned, his training kicking in as he joined his old colleagues who were gathered outside Mr Lang’s bedroom.

“What in heaven's name is happening?” Mrs Hughes demanded, pushing her way to the front of the group which Thomas the opportunity to follow her. They found Miss O’Brien of all people crouched nervously beside Mr Lang’s bed upon which the man in question lay thrashing beneath his sheets, clutching his head desperately as he screamed. “Mr Lang…”

“No!” the poor man trapped inside his nightmare pleaded pitifully. “No, I can't do it!”

Mr Carson slipped into room, gesturing for the crowd to step back as he called out softly,

“Mr Lang?”

_“I can't do it!”_

Before Thomas could stop him the butler had moved forwards, leaned over the bed and began to shake Mr Lang by the shoulders until he emerged from his dream with an almighty scream of pure terror, bolting up so quickly he almost smashed his nose on Carson’s chin.

“You're having a bad dream, Mr Lang!” Carson called out as he jerked his head back just in time, flinching as the now semi-awake man continued to struggle. “ _You're having a dream_!”

Mr Lang’s unfocused gaze locked on the empty corner of the room as he cried out sharply,

“There’re soldiers, Mr Carson! I see soldiers, but I…I can't…”

If Thomas hadn't already been convinced that the poor man was suffering from a terrible case of shell-shock given that only the severe cases actually got sent home this would have been enough to corroborate his tentative diagnosis. O’Brien took one of the poor man's hands in her own, squeezing it as reassuringly as she could even as he continued to weep.

“I can't go back! _I can't!_ No matter what they say…”

“No one's asking you to go back, Mr Lang,” Carson attempted to reassure him, looking more than a little uncomfortable about the situation. “You won't have to go back. I promise you.”

Thomas turned to the group stage the door, searching for one face in particular,

“Daisy, could you make Mr Lang a glass of warm milk with a dab of honey to help settle his nerves?” he enquired hopefully, smiling softly as the young kitchen maid immediately nodded. Her eyes were wider than he'd ever seen them, her shock painfully evident, but she didn't hesitate to turn and scurry away from the room. “I think it best that the rest of you leave now. Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes, Miss O’Brien and myself can see to things from here.”

“Although you're not in any position to be giving the staff orders, Thomas, I do happen to agree that it would be best if everyone returned to their rooms now,” Mr Carson murmured gruffly, shooting Thomas a quick glare as the medic moved to perch on the edge of Mr Lang’s bed on the opposite side to the one Miss O’Brien was knelt beside. “Off you go now.”

“Don't worry, Mr Lang, you've had a bad dream,” Miss O'Brien murmured soothingly, completely at odds with her usual spiteful nature. Her eyes were filled with a sadness Thomas had only seen there once before after the loss of Lady Cora’s baby. “That's all.”

Mr Lang turned his hopeful gaze towards her, seemingly unaware of Thomas reaching out for his other wrist in order to take his pulse. Predictably his heart was racing, not to mention he was trembling both from his palpable fear and the fact that he was drenched in sweat.

“Is it a dream?”

Shakily Miss O'Brien nodded, wincing sympathetically as the poor man began to sob.

“Thank God. Oh, thank God. _Thank God…_ ”

Thomas turned to face Mrs Hughes who looked deeply concerned.

“Mrs Hughes, we need to change his sheets and his nightclothes or he'll be at risk of catching a chill,” he murmured softly, behaving just as he did when the same thing happened to the patients on the wards who were just as prone to nightmares. “I know it's not a suitable task for a housekeeper but could you perhaps fetch some fresh, clean sheets whilst Mr Carson and I get him out of his damp nightclothes and into some fresh clothing?”

Surprisingly none of his former superiors questioned his orders, obviously recognising that he was speaking as Sergeant Barrow now rather than Thomas, the former footman. Mrs Hughes nodded, scurrying off to do as he'd asked whilst Mr Carson began searching through Mr Lang's drawers for his spare set of nightclothes, finding them in the bottom drawer.

“Miss O'Brien, if you could strip the bed once we've got him standing?” Thomas requested softly, interrupting her before she could protest. “I don't think Mr Lang would want you here whilst we change his clothes but I will need your help to get him settled afterwards.”

A light blush covered her cheeks.

“Of course, Thomas.”

Working together they soon got Mr Lang to his feet, Thomas quickly steadying the trembling man while Miss O'Brien set about stripping the soiled sheets from the bed. It seemed to take her an age for her to leave the room and then time seemed to speed up to almost double the usual rate, Thomas and Mr Carson working as quickly as possible to get Mr Lang changed into his fresh nightclothes whilst averting their eyes. It only returned to normal when he was dressed and Mrs Hughes arrived with the clean sheets, working with Miss O'Brien to get the bed remade so that they could manoeuvre Mr Lang between the sheets.

“I'm sorry…”

“It's all right, Mr Lang,” Miss O'Brien murmured, replacing his rather coarse but very warm blanket on top of his sheets, going to far as the tuck him in like he was a child just as a Daisy entered the room carrying a medium sized glass of milk. “Here you go. Get this down you.”

“I'm sorry…” Mr Lang all but moaned as Miss O'Brien took the glass from Daisy and held it to his lips, encouraging him to take a couple of sips of the warm liquid whilst smoothing his hair back from his forehead with her free hand. Thomas took a moment to thank Daisy for her help before softly suggesting that she should head back to bed now that he was calmer.

“You're all right…” Miss O'Brien murmured soothingly, continuing to encourage him to drink the honeyed milk slowly. Mrs Hughes moved to stand close to Mr Carson, both of them frowning ever so slightly which seemed to upset the ladies maid, causing her to snap out somewhat sharply, “Is it any wonder he's like this when he's been to hell and back?”

“No,” Thomas murmured, his voice coming out more haunted than he would have liked as it caused his three former colleagues to frown across at him. He cleared his throat, moving his hand to cup his stump self-consciously as he continued, “It's no wonder at all. For men like us, men who have spent time set the front, nightmares are unfortunately an accepted reality. Some, sadly, just seem to be more prone to them, to suffer more vividly from them.”

“Is there nothing that can be done?” Mrs Hughes enquired. “No way to help?”

“I wish there was a quick fix, believe me Mrs Hughes, I really do,” Thomas sighed regretfully. “But there isn't. Comfort, having someone to talk to? That helps after the fact but there isn't much to be done in regards to prevention although personally warm honeyed milk has helped me, hence why I asked Daisy to fetch some for Mr Lang. It should help him to relax.”

Judging by their shifting expressions none of them had really understood how much the war had traumatised him just the same as it had traumatised the rest of the patients in the hospital or the man now relaxing against his pillows, eyelids already beginning to droop.

“We should let Mr Lang get some rest,” he suggested as firmly as he could before turning to address the shell-shocked ex-soldier. “If you want to someone who knows what you've been through, what you’ve seen please don't hesitate to come find me. Talking really does help.”

Nodding towards Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes and Miss O'Brien he made his way back along the narrow corridor to his bedroom, all but slamming the door behind him in his haste to block out the outside world. He had not meant to expose so much of himself to them, to let them see how vulnerable the war could make him at times but he just hadn't had it in him to abandon Mr Lang in his hour of need, not when he knew how he felt and how to help him.

~ * ~

 **A/N** Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out – I took park in a writing challenge which took up all my time for the entire duration of July. Anyway I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I’ll try and get the next chapter out quickly. Comments/Suggestions welcome. X


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Thirteen; England, 1917**

Lieutenant Courtenay's hands trembled as he traced the tips of his fingers over the two identical strips of soft leather which Thomas had just presented to him midway through an early morning walk through the gardens, his mouth opening and closing as he obviously struggled to come with something to say. Thomas was alarmed to see tears welling up in the handsome young officer’s sightless eyes and reached out to steady his hands with his own.

“You don't have to wear them if they upset you,” he hurriedly announced, referring the two unlaced wrist braces that he had handed to the officer. “I just thought, now that your bandages have been removed and your wounds have healed you might like a smart way to keep them hidden from view. So that people won't stare. I didn't mean to upset you…”

Courtenay gasped loudly, emotionally.

“Upset me?” he repeated, shaking his head and allowing his tears to spill over. “I'm not upset. I'm…I'm overwhelmed that you would do this for me, that you could see how uncomfortable it's been making me to have the evidence of my cowardice on display…”

“Not cowardice,” Thomas interjected quickly. “Never cowardice.”

Reaching out he ever so gently placed his hands on top of Lieutenant Courtenay's, his thumbs stroking gently over the raised scars marring the lightly tanned skin. They were no worse than some of Thomas’s own scars but in other ways they were so much worse.

Courtenay inhaled shakily.

“Just…just a cry for help…” Thomas continued softly, taking one of the strips of leather from Lieutenant Courtenay so that he could gently secure it around the officer’s wrist, securing the laces with the aid of his new prosthetic limb. That was one of many little tasks he had been practicing for the last couple of days. “How does that feel? Too tight? Too loose?”

“It's perfect.”

Nodding to himself Thomas set about applying the second one to Courtenay's other wrist.

Once they were both secured around the young officers wrists Thomas fussed with the cuffs of his shirt for a moment, ensuring that they covered as much of the leather as possible, and then adjusted the cuffs of his tunic so that they hung properly around the now padded wrists. His years as a footman took over for a moment following his work on the sleeves, his hands moving to brush down the shoulders of the officer’s tunic before adjusting the way his tie hung down the front of his shirt, finishing off by adjusting both the shirt and tunic collars.

“…will I pass muster, do you think?”

Thomas smiled in response the hesitant enquire, taking a step back so as to properly assess the state of the young man before him. His hair needed trimming, the curls looking a little bit _too_ wild now but it wasn't disastrous by any means, more endearing than anything else, and the scars around his clouded eyes were beginning to fade to a light pink rather than the angry red colour they had been for so long. His uniform was a fraction loose, caused by the malnutrition all soldiers suffered from upon returning from the front but it was clean, freshly pressed and his boots had been polished until they gleamed. His cane had even been given a thorough polishing, the rich colour of the wood giving it an appearance of elegance rather than pitiful image of helplessness it had created back when he had first picked it up.

“Yes, sir,” Thomas reassured him sincerely. “You look every bit the dashing young hero.”

Lieutenant Courtenay scoffed, shaking his head firmly before fixing his sightless gaze on Thomas, clutching at the handle of his cane with both hands as he announced seriously,

“I think we both know who the real hero is between the two of us, Sergeant Barrow.”

“If I'd known the trouble it would cause me I would have left those men to rot…” Thomas grumbled, his words hollow as he glared down at the distinctive medal ribbon adorning his own inferior tunic. A trembling hand came into view, fingertips finding his buttons first before trailing across to stroke across the offending rectangle of fabric. “…I'm not a hero…”

“I think there are several people who would argue that you are, myself included,” Lieutenant Courtenay insisted firmly, resting his palm over the medal ribbon so that he could feel it resting against the palm of his hand. “You saved my life, Sergeant Barrow, not once but twice and despite what you say I know you'd never have left those men that you rescued from _No-Mans-Land_ to rot. You can deny it as much as you want but you _are_ a hero, Thomas, significantly more so than this pencil pushing General who I doubt ever left HQ is…”

Thomas couldn't stop the burst of laughter that forced it’s way past his tightly pursed lips as he heard the officers description of their much anticipated guest who was due to arrive in a matter of hours, repeating words Thomas had heard from many a patient over the course of the last few days when they'd been frantically trying to get everything ready for the visit. The men convalescing at the hospital were fighting men, men who had seen action at the front and had suffered for it. This supposed “ _Hero of the Somme_ ” had been one of the men giving the orders from the safety of battalion headquarters thirty miles behind the line and thus had done little to earn such a magnanimous title, at least in the eyes of the men who had actually fought at the _Somme_ , sometimes with nothing more than their bare hands.

“I hope you've put as much effort into your own uniform as you have into mine,” Courtenay announced suddenly, his hands roaming across Thomas’s torso in a completely innocent move that shouldn't have had such an effect on him as it did, shouldn't have caused heat to pool between his legs in a very familiar manner which forced him to step backwards quickly or have his secret found out. “Unfortunately I can't tell anything more than the fact that you're uniform is made of an even it hire fabric than mine is which I didn't believe possible…”

Again, Thomas was sized by uncontrollable laughter as he looked down at his own uniform.

“Oh, it's possible,” he muttered, recalling how unbearable his uniform had been to start with given how used his was to the superior fabric of his footman’s livery. This was his second uniform, given to him upon return to England, as the first had been damaged beyond repair when he was wounded. The fabric was no better. “And this is better than it was before I took as stiff brush to as much of it as I could. Anyway it’s clean and pressed, my buttons are as shiny as they can get considering they're made of such cheap brass and my puttees (1) are as neatly wrapped as I could get them so I won't be letting the side down.”

Lieutenant Courtenay smiled somewhat sadly as he murmured,

“I never thought you would. I don't think you could let anyone down…”

A snort of disliked forced its way out of Thomas as he shook his head, the young officers words reminding him of how little the men he helped look after really knew him. None of them knew what he had been like before the war, before his injuries, before he'd changed.

“I know several people who would disagree with that particular statement…”

His father…

His mother…

His siblings…

Lord Grantham…

Mr Carson…

Mr Bates…

“Are we alone?”

Courtenay's soft enquiry took him by surprise, dragging him from his thoughts before he could continue to silently formulate the list of people who would expect nothing but failure and disappointment from him, prompting him to return his attention to the young officer.

“Yes,” he responded, clearing his throat before flowing across at the blind man. “Why?”

Instead of answering Lieutenant Courtenay took a step closer to Thomas so that he could reach out and rest his hand against the enlisted man’s chest as he posed another question,

“Can anybody see us?”

Having walked the elaborate layout of individual gardens linked together by somewhat hidden pathways or vast open stretches of well tended grass broken only by ancient trees of the gravel driveway more times than he cared to remember it didn't take more than a second for Thomas to assess the privacy of their location, even with his partial blindness. They were stood beside the Grecian Arches which were situated at the centre of a tiny clearing in the midst of a carefully cultivated grove of trees and as far as private spots went it was about as secret as they could have managed without entering the walled gardens.

“No, no one can see us but why does that matt...”

Thomas's voice, filled with genuine confusion, was cut off abruptly when a pair of rough lips pressed against his own. They were a little off centre but considering the owner of said lips was completely blind the fact that he'd managed to find his target all was a minor miracle.

Hands settled on his shoulders, trembling even as they clutched almost desperately at the fabric as the lips corrected their alignment and then proceeded to give the stunned recipient of said lips one of the most, if not the most, passionate kisses of his entire life.

After a long moment during which his brain struggled to process what was happening, finally declaring that it wasn't a dream or an hallucination or even wishful thinking, Thomas began to respond. His good hand moved up to cup the back of Lieutenant Courtenay's back, fingers twining in the soft strands of hair curling at the nape of his skull, while his prosthetic hand came to rest heavily on the officers hip just as their tongues began to clash in a duel.

Eventually they were forced to separate with a groan, gasping for air, but their hands held on tight so as to keep their bodies close together while their chests heaved uncontrollably.

“I didn't dream what you said to me the night I…the night I...this is why you call yourself different, isn't it?” Courtenay panted, his breath tickling the sensitive skin of Thomas's lips as his sightless eyes fluttered sporadically. “And you did say that…that you love me…”

Thomas's thoughts felt sluggish as he attempted to respond to the breathless confession,

“No, I mean, yes, that's why and…and I did say that…I…I mean…I do…”

Once again he was silenced with a kiss, little more than a peck to put an end to his rambling, and then a strong pair of arms were winding their way around his waist and pulling him forwards until their bodies were literally pressed against each other. Thomas felt his cheeks flush as his arms automatically moved to loop over Courtenay's shoulders, the simple move bringing him closer to a male body than he had been in years and somehow feeling more intimate, more illicit than the passionate kiss they had just shared only moments before.

“I'm so thankful that you found me in time,” Courtenay murmured against the puckered and scarred skin of Thomas's neck and cheek, his lips brushing the sensitive skin. “Otherwise I would never have been able to hold you like this, to touch you as I have and to tell you from the bottom of my heart that I love you. I have loved you since the first moment I heard your voice, back when I was lost in the depths of despair. I need you, Thomas. And I love you.”

A solitary tear slipped down the former footman's cheek as he heard words he had never even allowed him to imagine tumbling from the plump lips of the man holding on to him.

“…are you sure? Loving me is…dangerous…”

“I have been a homosexual for some years, Thomas,” Courtenay admitted with a smile, his hands moving up and down Thomas's back ever so gently. “I know exactly how dangerous this is for _both_ of us but I'm game if you are. I meant what I said; I _love_ you and I _need_ you.”

Thomas uttered an uncontrollable sound made up of a relieved laugh and joyous sob.

“I…I meant what I said that night, sir,” he finally murmured, moving his hand up to cup the smooth skin of Courtenay's freshly shaved jaw. “I love you. I shouldn't, but I do. I love you.”

“Edward…I think, given the circumstances, that you should call me Edward…”

Thomas smiled.

“Edward…”

Neither of them were all that bothered by the fact that they were shouted at by various people for returning so late from their walk that Captain Crawley had already called to confirm that they were on their way meaning that the Generals arrival was imminent.

“You seem unusually happy,” Sybil murmured as he took his place beside her in the _‘welcoming committee’_ formation they'd practised the day before. He was on the very end of the line dues to being the lowest rank included, both in terms of military standing and social standing. “If I didn't know better I'd say you'd been kissing some pretty nurse…”

Thomas snorted before he could stop himself,

“Kissing, yes, but I don't think he'd like being referred to as some _pretty_ _nurse…_ ”

Her plump red lips dropped open in shock.

“ _Thomas_!” she giggled sounding somewhat scandalised ever as her brilliant blue eyes positively danced with joy, a delighted laugh interrupting the somewhat tense silence of the others. Biting her lip she offered her parents an innocent smile, murmured an apology to Major Clarkson and then glared good-naturedly at Thomas. “You owe me an explanation…”

A minuscule nod was the only answer he gave in response to her muttered demand as it was at that precise moment that the vehicle containing Captain Crawley and their esteemed guest, Sir Herbert Strutt, turned off of the road and began making it’s way along the drive.

Obeying military protocol the various uniformed men snapped to attention and performed a smart salute, including Lord Grantham, as the car came to a halt directly in front of the main entrance around which they were all gathered. They held the salute for the length of time it took he General and his party to emerge from the car and were only free to lower their aching arms once the man of the hour had responded with a lacklustre salute of his own.

Captain Crawley stepped forwards to begin making the important introductions,

“My cousin, Lord Grantham.”

Sir Herbert Strutt sounded every bit as pompous as Thomas had expected him to,

“This is very kind of you, Lord Grantham.”

Lord Grantham, of course, took it in his stride and offered his own smile born from years of living a privileged lifestyle. His handshake, which his instigated, was confident and firm.

“Welcome.”

“Lady Grantham,” Captain Crawley continued with the introductions, smiling at the woman he had once hoped would become his mother-in-law but sadly no longer as he and Lady Mary had gone their separate ways. Cora was every bit as confident as he husband, offering the General a smile as she shook his hand. Hers was a gentle, demure shake as one would expect from a lady of breeding. “And this is Major Clarkson who runs our hospital here.”

Before Major Clarkson could even think of offering his own greeting to their esteemed guest Mrs Crawley, the interfering woman that she was had stepped forwards to introduce herself, much to the embarrassment of everyone present but none more so than her son.

“And I am Captain Crawley's mother,” she announced with a beaming smile, blatantly ignoring the looks bring shot her way by various members of the gathering. “And will accompany you on your tour and explain the different levels of care we practice here.”

Major Clarkson cleared his throat loudly,

“Lady Grantham and Mrs Crawley will _both_ accompany us as we go around, sir.”

Thomas barely held back a snort of amusement as Mrs Crawley's smile descended into a pout whilst General Strutt let out an amused chuckle, smiling at two women in question.

“Makes a nice change from the craggy-faced warriors I'm usually surrounded by.”

“I'd like to think that were true,” Cora murmured softly, returning his smile before gesturing elegantly to the front of the house as she moved up a step. “Please, come this way.”

“There's a large recreation room–”

Mrs Crawley's attempt to reinsert herself into the centre of the conversation as the group began to make its way inside the building was quickly thwarted by the Countess who didn't so much interrupt her as talk over her, behaving as though the other woman wasn't there.

“I don't believe you've ever been to Downton before, General. I hope you'll enjoy your visit.”

Captain Crawley moved to stand before Lady Mary, offering her a smile, before nodding to Lady Edith and Nurse Crawley in turn. It was impossible for Thomas not to listen in the words which were passed softly between them given how close he was to the four of them.

“Poor mother,” Captain Crawley sighed regretfully. “She longs to hold all the reigns.”

“We've noticed,” Lady Mary murmured in response, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the sleeve of her elegant blouse. She, unlike Lady Edith, had obviously put a lot of thought into her appearance for the visit and was wearing a delicate white blouse, it's square neckline trimmed with lace, paired with her duck egg blue skirt which was cinched in about her trim waist by a thick belt in a darker blue colour. “But Mama will not back down.”

“Nor should she,” Lady Edith insisted softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear which didn't help to improve the hairstyle she has adopted for the day. Unlike her sisters Lady Edith had never had a flare fashion, or rather she'd never managed to figure out what suited her face shape, body shape, even her hair colour. Instead she'd followed with whatever fashion was popular and her appearance had suffered because of it, detracting from her naturally good looks and often times making her look dowdy, old before her time. Today was no exception, the patterned blouse a cast off of Sybil's when she'd outgrown it and the skirt a rather unflattering brown colour. “It is her house after all. She should be involved.”

“Not in medical matters, though,” Sybil pointed out, looking crisp and smart in her less than flattering nurse’s uniform which she somehow still managed to make look stylish on her. “Mrs Crawley has proven her worth in that respect. If only they could find a compromise…”

“In an ideal world they–”

Captain Crawley's soft words were cut off by the General calling out for him from inside.

“Crawley?”

“I should go,” Captain Crawley sighed deeply and with obvious reluctance before offering the sisters a somewhat mischievous smirk. “If only to keep our respective mothers apart…”

Sybil giggled softly, sharing a quick glance with Thomas while her sisters responded by following the handsome young Captain inside their family’s ancestral home. His responding smirk was quickly smoothed out into a professional expression of apathy when Major Clarkson moved to stand in front of the two of them, letting out a rather despondent sigh.

“I'm afraid Mrs Crawley's none too pleased to play second fiddle, sir.”

“I'm painfully aware of that particular fact, Sergeant Barrow,” Major Clarkson groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just hope she doesn't spoil things for the rest of us.”

“I'm sure she won't–”

Whatever else Sybil might have uttered so as to reassure Clarkson would forever remain a mystery as from inside the grand building, specifically inside the recreation room, came the distinctive sounds of someone bashing out the introduction to piece of music on the piano.

Thomas recognised the piece at once, choking back a semi-hysterical laugh at their audacity, but it wasn't until a chorus of strong voices joined in that his friend and their commanding officer realised which particular song the men had chosen to give a rousing rendition of.

_“One staff officer jumped right over another staff officers back,_

_And another staff officer jumped right over that other staff officers back,_

_A third staff officer jumped right over the two staff officers backs,_

_And a fourth staff officer jumped right over all the other staff officers backs.”_

“Sergeant Barrow!” Major Clarkson snapped, his expression one of horror as he recognised the implications behind the song and how General Strutt, a staff officer, would no doubt be offended by the tongue in cheek lyrics. “Get those men to stop singing that… _that_ at once!”

“Yes, sir.”

Chuckling to himself Thomas hurried past the group still gathered in the entrance hall, all of them attempting to distract Sir Herbert Strutt from the song, and ducked into what had once been the library and was now the patients recreation room where it seemed anyone who wasn't restricted to their beds had gathered around the upright piano to take part.

_“They were only playing leapfrog,_

_They were only playing leapfrog,_

_They were only playing leapfrog,_

_When one staff officer jumped right over the other staff officers back._

_They were only playing leapfrog,_

_They were only playing leapfrog,_

_They were only playing – ”_

Thomas cleared his throat loudly, interrupting their raucous voices with practised ease.

“As much as I'm enjoying this _wonderful_ rendition could you please desist for the duration of the visit?” he called out as properly as he could manage, noting how most of the men pouted whilst some openly protested. “Or perhaps sing something a little more… _suitable_?”

“That's the thing, Sergeant, we think this is pretty damn suitable for the likes of Sir Herbert Strutt.”

Thomas’s mind instantly supplied him with the relevant information as he met the piercing gaze of the officer who had challenged him; Captain Green, a veteran of the Somme who had lost both of his legs from the knee down and whose wife had left him, claiming that she was “unable to cope” and had since entered into an intimate relationship with his cousin.

“I know you do,” Thomas responded, softening his voice just a fraction. “I was wounded at the Somme as well, you know, so I happen to agree with you. Unfortunately Sir Herbert Strutt has the power and the authority to close us down should he deem it necessary to do so, so let's keep things light and friendly for the time being, understood gentlemen?”

“What about _‘Hanging On The Old Barbed Wire’_ , Sergeant?” Lieutenant Evesham, a much younger officer who had lost both of his feet to a horrific case of trench foot which had left the surgeons at the field hospital where he'd been treated initially with no option but to amputate. He was little more than a boy, not even twenty, and a ‘sweetheart’ according the nurses who had a tendency to let him get away with all sorts of trouble. “Can we sing that?”

Thomas couldn't stop himself from chuckling deeply as he responded,

“To your hearts content. And perhaps you could try pairing it up with ‘ _The Bells Of Hell_ ’ for good measure?”

Neither could be seen as outright attempts to upset the supposed “ _Hero of the Somme_ ” who had upset the men so much but they certainly weren't insipid little propaganda pieces, either. Thomas had heard both sung frequently whilst at the front, the tunes stolen from other songs whilst the words varied between soldiers as they were adapted and changed.

Official versions had even been published, of course, in ‘ _The Wipers Times._ ’

His suggestion was met with a roar of approval and their pianist, another painfully young officer who had learnt to play the musical instrument as a child and had lost half of his face including most of his jaw to the war, launched into the introduction of their chosen song.

_“If you want the old battalion,_

_We know where they are,_

_We know where they are._

_If you want the old battalion,_

_We know where they are,_

_They're hanging on the old barbed wire.”_

Smiling to himself Thomas slipped out of the room and joined the rest of the tour in the main ward where General Strutt was being introduced to the various bedridden officers.

“The men are in a musical mood, sir,” he reported to Major Clarkson softly who grunted in agreement, looking more than a little bit strained. Sybil was stood at the edge of the room beside Edward, both of them blatantly eavesdropping on his conversation with Clarkson. “I've convinced them to choose their songs carefully so as not to risk upsetting our guest.”

“As if this visit wasn't enough of a challenge to begin with…”

_“We've seen them,_

_We've seen them,_

_Hanging on the old barbed wire._

_We've seen them,_

_We've seen them,_

_Hanging on the old barbed wire.”_

Taking the opportunity to join Sybil and Edward when the Major was called upon to answer a medical question Thomas leaned back against the wall with his shoulder pressed against Edwards, holding his left elbow with his remaining hand in such a way that he could rest the tips of his fingers against the officer’s arm. None of this went unnoticed by Sybil Crawley.

“So…” she began ominously, keeping her voice as soft as possible as she smiled at the two men beside her. “I hear you had an enjoyable walk this morning, Lieutenant Courtenay.”

A delightful blush stained Edward’s cheeks.

“Don't worry, I'm happy for both of you,” she pressed on just as quietly, resting her hand reassuringly on his arm even as her mother frowned across at them. “Thomas has become my closest friend and confidante since this war began, listening to my problems no matter how trivial they were and sharing some of his own. I would never break his confidence, nor will I break yours. You deserve each other. And don't worry, I'm good with secrets...”

Thomas couldn't help but snort.

“And by that she means no one’s found out about her secret relationship with her families handsome Irish chauffeur as of yet…” he murmured, his words just loud enough for Sybil to hear and then it was her turn to blush spectacularly whilst Edward adopted an expression of amused shock. “Speaking of said chauffeur has he stopped being a bit of an idiot yet?”

Sybil's deep sigh was answer enough.

Edward frowned,

“Something wrong?”

“He's…well, he’s a very passionate man and he's a bit…bitter about everything that happened in Ireland so he didn't want to fight and he was going to do something stupid when he got called up,” Sybil answered softly, rushing through the story as quickly as she could whilst putting on a fake smile when she met her mother’s concerned gaze. “Then he went and failed his medical so they don't want him and now he's just… _angry_ all the time…”

Reaching out blindly with his hand the young officer sought out her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze, the action not going unnoticed by her mother whose gaze turned positively glacial with disapproval for a moment before her smile returned as General Strutt addressed a question about a beautiful piece of artwork hanging on the wall beside them.

“He won't be angry forever,” Edward murmured, unwittingly reiterating the sentiment Thomas had used to reassure her when she's first spoken to him of her troubles. “We men just…need time, sometimes, to get our heads on straight when something upsets us…”

A roar of laughter filled the room, coming from the recreation room of course, just before the next song began and it was indeed the humorous little ditty Thomas had suggested.

_“The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,_

_For you but not for me,_

_And the little devils how they sing-a-ling-a-ling,_

_For you but not for me,_

_Oh, death where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,_

_Oh, grave thy victory?_

_The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,_

_For you but not for me.”_

“Who is that man?” Mrs Crawley demanded so sharply that Thomas, Edward and Sybil all heard her words as clear as day. She was, of course, referring to the officer who had just entered into a conversation with General Strutt. “I hope he's not complaining.”

“Oh, no, that's Captain Smiley,” Lady Edith answered before anyone else could, reassuring the older woman. _‘Smiley by name, smiley by nature’_ was how they all referred to the officer who had a talent for telling tall tales, spinning stories out of nowhere designed to bring humour and joy to the wounded men around him. “He hasn't an unkind bone in his body.”

Lady Mary scoffed, shooting her sister a look,

“How do _you_ know?”

General Strutt had been drawn into conversation by Major Haimes, a veteran officer who was restricted to his bed due to a head injury that continued to mess with his sense of balance and would probably continue to do so for some time, who spoke at length with the more senior officer. Every now and then they'd glance around the room, either at the various nurses on duty, at Thomas himself and the other orderlies and towards Lady Edith.

“Matthew,” Strutt called out suddenly, becoming the younger man over. “Listen to this.”

“Everything all right, sir?”

General Strutt had sounded more impressed than upset but still it was a little bit concerning that he had called Captain Crawley over to join his private conversation. Evidently Thomas wasn't the only one struck by a measure of concern as Her Ladyship's voice reached them,

“What on earth's that about?”

“Oh, don't worry,” Lady Edith spoke up once more, this time with an almost fond smile. “Major Haimes can be a little bit waspish, but he wouldn't want to get us into trouble.”

“How do you know so much about a pack of strangers?”

Lady Edith frowned at her mother as she answered softly,

“They're not strangers to me.”

 _No,_ Thomas thought to himself, _I don't suppose they are._

He'd been genuinely surprised by how eager the middle Crawley sister had been to get stuck in and help at the hospital, not with medical matters or things to do with the house but the simple things that most people had forgotten to begin with. Fetching books and newspapers for the bedridden. Writing letters for those who were unable to do so themselves. Reading letters, books and newspaper articles to those who couldn't see for whatever reason.

“This is all very impressive, Lady Grantham,” General Strutt announced firmly as he headed towards the group having finished his conversation with Major Haines. Captain Crawley followed after him dutifully. “The nurses and your own staff to be congratulated.”

Cora positively beamed in response,

“I believe they are.”

“As well as this young chap over here, I believe,” the General continued cheerfully and all of a sudden Thomas found himself face to face with their guest of honour. Automatically he pushed himself away from the wall, settling into the position of attention even as his body wanted to squirm away from Strutt's piercing gaze. “Sergeant Barrow, I believe? Several of the men had mentioned you to me so far, saying you're a terrific inspiration for them what with everything you've been through as well as complimenting you on running a tight ship.”

“I do my best, sir.”

General Strutt nodded towards the medal ribbon on Thomas's tunic,

“Impressive. Where'd you earn that?”

“The Somme,” Thomas responded dutifully, unable to keep himself from flashing a quick smirk at the officer who, if Thomas didn't know any better, was actually a bit jealous. “Sir.”

 _Oh, yes,_ Thomas thought to himself as the privileged officer harrumphed softly before offering him a rather hollow sounding “Congratulations”, _definitely a spot of jealousy._

“Why don't we show you the recreation room now, General?”

Normally Thomas would have been annoyed with Mrs Crawley for interfering but as it took the spotlight off of him, his medal and his numerous injuries he was actually relieved by it. Of course it was at that precise moment the piano struck up once more only this time it was immediately evident that something was different, the music significantly more sombre.

_“And when they ask us,_

_How dangerous it was._

_Oh, we'll never tell them,_

_No, we'll never tell them._

_We spent our pay in some café,_

_And fought wild women night and day._

_T’was the cushiness job we ever had.”_

Apparently with the General halfway out the door the various men on the ward had felt comfortable enough to join in with the mournful song, each of their voices joining those of the men in the recreation room one by one until nothing else could be heard by the music.

Even Thomas found himself compelled by something to add his voice into the mix alongside Edward who had been more quick to do so, his handsome face devoid of emotion just then.

_“And when they ask us,_

_And they're certainly going to ask us._

_The reason why we didn't win_

_The Croix de Guerre._

_Oh, we'll never tell them,_

_No, we'll never tell them._

_There was a front but damned if we knew where.”_

Mrs Crawley cleared her throat, not the only one effected by the amount of emotion the men had put into the song which certainly expressed their reluctance to truly talk about the horrific things they had witnessed and experienced, and gestured for Strutt to follow her.

“If you'd like to come this way, General, I think you'll be pleased with…”

Thomas, having had enough of the official visit, chose not to follow them.

~ * ~

 **A/N** This wasn't where I had intended to finish this chapter but it was getting a little bit long so I had to alter my plan ever so slightly. All of the songs I used were popular during World War One and can be found on YouTube or by watching the film _‘Oh! What A Lovely War.’_ Comments  & Suggestions are welcome, as per usual. X

(1)        Puttees – a puttee, also spelled puttie, is the name given to a covering for the lower part of the leg from the ankle to the knees consisting of a long narrow piece of cloth which was wound tightly and spirally around the leg to provide both support and protection and were part of the British Army Uniform until World War Two.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Fourteen;  
England, 1917 **

_It's funny, how differently the horrors of war could affect those who experienced it._

_Some had difficulty coping from the moment they set foot in France. They suffered from tinnitus, from amnesia, from headaches and dizziness, from tremors and hypersensitivity to noise although for most they suffered no physical wounds._

_For others their difficulties appeared gradually the longer they spent at the front._

_Sadly, for the majority of those who experienced combat in one way or another, their struggles didn’t begin until much later in life. For weeks, months, even years they seemed perfectly fine, unaffected by their experiences. And then suddenly, inexplicably, their minds would crumble just like their friends and colleagues._

_No one, no matter how strong, emerged from the war unscathed._

_It's funny, how differently the horrors of war could affect those who experienced it._

~ * ~

He had been enjoying a brief moment of respite by the fire in the servant’s hall, a cigarette perched between his lips, a paper resting against his thigh and held in place by his prosthetic hand, when Anna literally tumbled into the room looking as though she had just run a mile.

“Where's Mr Branson?”

“I haven't seen him,” Thomas responded around the cigarette, his hand already moving to fold up the paper and place it aside when she let out a worried sob. “Anna? What's wrong?”

Rather than answer him the head housemaid spun around on the spot and hurried along the corridor, bursting into Mrs Hughes sitting room without knocking which left Thomas with no choice but to follow her as quickly as he could if he wanted to get some sort of an answer.

“Where's Mr Branson?”

Looking up from the list she'd been formulating Mrs Hughes frowned across at the breathless young woman, her eyes flickering to Thomas as he came to a stop in the doorway before focusing on Anna once more as she answered, her voice filled with confusion,

“He's just taken up the soup, why?”

Thrusting her hand into the pocket of her apron Anna produced a folded slip of paper.

“Read that.”

Frowning the housekeeper reached out to take the note, opening it up and angling it so that the light from her lamp illuminated the handwriting covering the small scrap of paper,

“They'll have arrested me by now, but I'm not sorry. The bastard had it coming to him…” she read aloud, her eyes going wide as she connected the note with Anna's initial question and came to the same conclusion as Thomas – Tom was about to attack General Sir Herbert Strutt at the dinner table in front of the family in such a way that he'd be arrested. “Oh!”

Stepping aside to allow them to rush out of the room Thomas followed them as they made their way up to the hidden serving hatch which only the servants ever entered where they found Mr Carson busy at work preparing the wine for the next course of the grand meal.

Turning at the commotion he three of them made the butler hurried across hiss at them,

“What in God's name?”

Mrs Hughes thrust the sheet of paper underneath his nose.

“Read this!” she hissed in return, holding it steady as Mr Carson read the contents of the letter, his eyes going wider than Thomas had ever seen before. “Where is he now?”

Looking up from the damning note Mr Carson paled and looked towards the dining room.

“Oh, my God…”

“We have to stop him,” Mrs Hughes whimpered. “Now.”

Mr Carson nodded once.

“Anna, please come with me to collect the things he took in with him,” he requested, humming in approval when the young woman instantly nodded. “There's no telling what he was planning to do but we can't risk the family investing anything he's touched just in case.”

“Can I be of any assistance?” Thomas found himself enquiringly softly, pulling his shoulders back and standing perfectly straight when the butler turned to stare at him. “Mr Carson?”

“I may need help getting him downstairs,” Carson finally admitted somewhat begrudgingly. “For now could you please stay here and look after Mrs Hughes. Anna and I shall manage.”

Nodding in response Thomas moved to stop the door from swinging closed once the pair had slipped into the dining room as quietly as possible, offering his arm to Mrs Hughes who took hold of it gratefully as the adrenaline began to wear off and her legs began to shake.

Mr Carson arrived just in time to stop Tom from lifting the lid off of the soup, Anna hovering a couple of paces away and offering the family a reassuring smile as Tom struggled briefly.

“I was sorry to hear about your batman,” Robert murmured, glancing briefly towards the hushed conversation taking place at the sideboard before focusing his attention on Matthew, thus ensuring that everyone else at the large table did the same. “From what I heard he was a good man, loyal. It's always tough losing ones batman. They are invaluable.”

Sir Herbert grunted into his glass in agreement.

“Indeed,” Captain Crawley murmured regretfully, his own eyes flickering back and forth to where Tom was struggling feebly against Mr Carson's strong grip. “Worse still it wasn't even in battle. Poor chap caught a chill on the boat home and developed pneumonia. Dead before we landed in Southampton. But at least that means he can be buried at home.”

A murmur of sympathy spread around the table upon hearing the sorry tale.

“I don't envy you the task of finding a suitable replacement, Matthew,” Robert commented, his voice slightly louder than it needed to be as he attempted to draw attention from where Mr Carson was now forcefully leading Tom over to the servants hatch. Anna followed close behind, carrying the tray containing the soup bowl. “Never easy, selecting ones batman.”

Tom was shoved through the door Thomas held open, Mrs Hughes hopping back just in time to avoid an unfortunate accident, and as soon as Anna had stepped out of the room he allowed the door to swing shut. Already Mr Carson was shoving Tom towards the stairs.

“Get downstairs,” the butler hissed sharply. “Now!”

When Tom made a desperate lunge for the door Thomas was quick to plant himself in the way, pushing the desperate young man back a couple of paces. Mr Carson reached out, grabbing hold of Tom’s wrist which he proceeded to use to twist his arm up behind his back.

“Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?” Thomas enquired as he noticed how ashen the housekeepers complexion had become, offering her his good arm. Offering him a grateful smile she slipped her arm through his, leaning on him for support as they followed Mr Carson, Tom and Anna down to the basement. “I think a cup of sweetened tea is in order.”

“All right! All right!” Tom protested loudly once they reached the bottom of the stairs, stumbling as Mr Carson continued to drag him along. “There's no need to be so rough!”

“There's every need!” Mr Carson boomed, literally shoving the younger man away from him once they'd entered the kitchen. Anna followed them in, placing the heavy tray down on the kitchen table just as Thomas guided Mrs Hughes over to a nearby chair. “To stop a murder!”

“Murder?” Tom repeated as he straightened himself out, sounding genuinely confused. Leaving the others to deal with interrogation Thomas set about preparing the cut of sweet tea he'd prescribed from Mrs Hughes, grateful that he was adapting so well to his prosthetic that he was able to work quickly without drawing attention. “What do you mean _murder_?”

Anna was the one to respond, exclaiming in a thorough shocked manner,

“You were going to assassinate the general!”

“Kill the general?” Tom repeated incredulously. “I was not!”

Placing the simple strainer over the top of the cup he'd taken from the crying rack by the sink Thomas picked up the simple teapot he'd used and poured some of the delicious smelling liquid into the cup, the loose tea leaves gathering in the strainer as the liquid mixed with the dash of milk he'd already added to the cup. All that was left then was to add a rather large spoonful of sugar, stirring it in quickly before handing the cup to Mrs Hughes.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

Nodding to acknowledge her thanks, which weren't truly necessary as it was automatic for him now to help people who were experiencing some sort of distress and it was perfectly logical to prescribe sweet tea to someone suffering from emotional shock rather than physical shock, Thomas then made himself a cup of tea for no other reason than he could.

Unfortunately he had just taken his first sip when Anna lifted the lid covering the soup, allowing a foul smell to escape which caused everyone gathered in the kitchen to gag.

“Ugh!”

“I was…” Tom sighed, his fight seeming to leave him. “…going to throw that lot all over him.”

Anna looked completely horrified,

“What is it?”

“Oil and ink and a bit of a cow pie, all mixed with sour milk,” Tom explained the recipe he'd used to create his disgusting concoction. Mrs Patmore moved forwards quickly, picking up the container and carrying it over to the sink as quickly as she could whilst obviously holding her breath. “He'd have needed a bath, right enough, but not a coffin! I'm not a murderer!”

Thomas couldn't blame Mrs Patmore for having to look away when she poured it down the sink, the disgusting mess slurping unpleasantly as it disappeared down the plug hole. It was a minor miracle that he could drink any more of his tea following that but if there was one thing that the sights, sounds and smells of war had given him it was a cast iron stomach.

Daisy entered the kitchen, frowning across at Tom with obvious confusion,

“I thought you'd taken the soup up, but you left it in the pantry.”

Having been revitalised by the cup of sweet tea Mrs Hughes rose from her seat and plucked a copper pot from a nearby shelf, placing it on the kitchen table with a soft thud. It gleamed under the brightness of the electric lights, the rich colour looking very striking indeed.

“We'll use this. It's not bee heated, but the hell with that!” she announced, sharing a nod of agreement and approval with Mrs Patmore. Daisy shrugged, picked up the copper pot and headed off to transfer the soup from the rather bettered pot it had been cooked up in which as she'd said was still sitting in the pantry. “And we'll decide what happens to you later.”

Her final words were, of course, meant for Tom who's shoulders were slumped dejectedly.

“Never mind later, what about now?” Carson grumbled, his glare one of the fiercest Thomas had seen in a long while. It felt rather strange for that glare to be directed towards someone else when usually he was the intended target. “How do we keep this dinner going?”

A throat cleared in the doorway and, turning his entire head due to the person being on his blind side, Thomas was surprised to find William standing there in the familiar uniform of a Private in the British Army. He looked painfully young, just like so many of the others Thomas had seen fight and die at the front, had patched back together as best he could.

When had he arrived?

“I'll serve, Mr Carson,” William offered with another bright smile, his hands absentmindedly turning his cap over and over making him appear more nervous than her probably was. They'd never been friends; Thomas had resented William too much, been jealous of his happy home and sweet nature to be friends but even he was worried what would happen to the naïve young man when he reached the front. The war chewed up people like William and spat them out broken. “I don't mind. Who knows when I'll have the chance again?”

Keeping out of the way as the kitchen defended into something akin to organised chaos Thomas waited until William, Anna and Mr Carson had disappeared, each of them carrying a heavily loaded tray of some kind, before he nodded to Mrs Hughes and moved over to Tom.

“I'll walk you back to your cottage, Mr Branson,” he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. Mrs Hughes shot him a grateful look. “I can take care of that livery for you.”

Tom, shoulders slumped with defeat, nodded.

Both men remained perfectly silent as they trudged across the courtyard to the chauffeur’s cottage which, understandably, was located next to the building which had once held the families numerous carriages but had been converted into a suitable garage upon the introduction of a motor car to the family’s fleet. Of the carriages only the small pony trap remained, useful during the summer months, whilst the rest had been sold or scrapped.

Once inside, however, Thomas found himself unable to bit his tongue any longer.

“Are you _completely_ mad?” he demanded, rounding on the shorter man who flush angrily, glaring up at him as he stormed up the narrow staircase to his bedroom. Thomas followed. “Do you have _any_ idea what this would have done to Sybil if you'd gone through with it and been arrested? How hurt she'd have been? How tarnished your love would have become?”

“Why do _you_ care?”

“Why do _I_ care?” Thomas echoed coldly, laughing mirthlessly as he watched the Irishman stripping off the starched footman's livery with sharp, jerky motions. “Perhaps because Sybil is one of the only true friends I have and I want to see her happy not heartbroken! Perhaps because I think she's one of the kindest souls to ever exist and doesn't deserve to suffer the pain and humiliation your actions would have brought down upon her? She _loves_ you! And I know you’re angry, I know what you think of us, the English, but there's no need to hurt her.”

Tom was taken aback, stunned by the passionate outburst coming from the other man.

“I'm not trying to say you shouldn't be angry,” Thomas continued, locking his gaze with the smaller mans. “Hell, you have every right to the rage you're feeling. But there are better ways to deal with it than this, better ways to make those responsible pay. You think you're the only one who hates the British Government? Do you know what they do to people like me? You think that's any more acceptable than what they're doing to your country? No, it's not. It's different, yes, but it's still wrong. Do you see me going against them singlehanded?”

Thomas couldn't stop himself from snorting at his unintentional jokes, glancing down at his prosthetic hand, the ultimate proof that he was literally a ‘singlehanded’ human being now.

“You're smarter than this. You’re _better_ than this,” he finally pressed on firmly. “Take your anger and channel it into something that'll make a difference. Sybil mentioned you like politics, that you'd like to be involved in them one day. Good. Anger and determination go hand in hand in politics, especially for someone of our social class to get involved in them.”

Tom blinked, his expression stunned, before suddenly he dropped back to sit on the bed.

“ _Fuck_ …” he breathed, his voice catching. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Thomas answered. “You did nothing because you have friends who worry about you enough to stop you from doing something stupid. And don’t think you don't owe all of them an apology because you do. Anna, Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes – they saved you tonight.”

“…and you…” Tom murmured softly, looking up at the man now towering over him. “It's been a long time since I was chewed out like that…and I think I needed it. You're right…”

Thomas grunted softly, unused to receiving praise,

“Anytime.”

Gathering up the various parts of the footman's livery which Tom had simply abandoned on the floor Thomas left the other man to his thoughts, his own thoughts centred on how relieved he was that he'd managed to get through to him. He would have hated for Sybil to be hurt by something that the man she'd fallen in love with did in a moment of blind anger.

“And since when were you such a nice, caring person Thomas Barrow?” he muttered to himself with a shake of his head as he slipped into the room where the livery was kept. Despite one of his hands now bring made out of wood it was second nature for him to get the used garment hung and stored properly on the side of the small cupboard which was used to hold the liveries which had been used and therefore needed cleaning. “Since you were turned into a crippled gargoyle you stupi…how long have you been standing there?”

William, standing in the doorway to the small room, had the decency to glance away awkwardly. His buttons gleamed under the glare of the electric lights and Thomas felt like rubbing boot polish over them before he set sail for France to stop him from becoming a snipers target, them and his cap badge which also gleamed far brighter than it should.

“Not long,” William responded softly. “Dinners just finished.”

Now that surprised him, prompting him to check his pocket watch. He'd been completely unaware of the passage of time and could only assume he spent more time than he thought with Tom. Huh. Tucking his pocket watch away he closed the cupboard and turned to leave.

“Mr Carson was wondering if you would like to join the rest of us to see the General off?”

Considering how Mr Carson had been doing everything in his power to keep Thomas out of the servants affairs for the past few days the offer was surprising, not to mention generous, and the former footman knew a peace offering when he saw one. With that in mind he nodded once, smartly, and gestured for William to lead the way out of the room and then proceeded to follow him out into the courtyard and around the house, joining the others as they arranged themselves outside the main entrance the Abbey in the fading light of day.

“Perhaps, Sergeant Barrow, you and William should stand on the other side?” Mr Carson suggested, surprising a everyone by addressing Thomas correctly as he gestured towards the area where the family usually stood to greet their guests. “As you are both in uniform.”

“Quite right, Mr Carson,” Thomas responded politely. Out of the corner of his eyes he spotted a couple of nurses having a cheeky cigarette and called them over. They arrived, fidgeting and looking nervous. “You're not in trouble. I thought it only proper that we have some representatives of the nursing staff here to bid farewell to our guest, Mr Carson?”

Mr Carson hummed approvingly.

“Stand in line with Private Mason and myself,” he instructed the nurses who still looked terrified. “Fluff your hair, fix your caps and give the General and nice big smile as he leaves.”

“Yes, Sergeant Barrow.”

As he settled into his own place closest to the door, opposite Mr Carson, Thomas couldn't help but glance to his right at whose posture was as perfect as ever as he stood at ease.

“William?”

“Hmm?”

“When you get the France there's a couple of things I need you to promise me that you'll do,” Thomas muttered softly, aware that everyone else was listening in. Judging by their facial expressions they were expecting him to say something cruel and unnecessary. “Learn how to slump. In the trenches you want to be as small and low down a possible. Perfect posture is for home duties only, alright? And in regards your uniform anything that should be polished, don't. Cover your buttons in boot polish or mud, same with your cap badge and the buckles of your webbing. Snipers are trained to look out for things that catch the light so if you go as you are now you'll be picked off in no time. And always keep your rifle clean.”

William blinked at him in obvious surprise at the candid advice he'd been given.

“Understood?”

“Yes,” the younger boy murmured hollowly. “Thank you, Sergeant Barrow.”

Following a lengthy goodbye full of praise for the house, the hospital and the family the General was finally helped into his car, casually calling out for Captain Crawley to take his time saying his goodbyes as they weren't in any real hurry to get back to the barracks.

“Is there any chance you might take our footman, William, for your servant?” the Earl of Grantham enquired unexpectedly, gesturing to William who puffed out his chest as almost all eyes present turned on him. “I can pull some strings, get him transferred to your lot.”

“If you'd like me to, of course,” Captain Crawley agreed softly, smiling towards William who managed to keep his expression suitably blank, neutral. “I can't promise to keep him safe.”

“I know, but at least with you he'll have someone looking out for him,” the Earl explained his reasoning and, surprisingly, Thomas found himself agreeing with his former employer ego he'd always struggled to see eye to eye with. Whatever would have been spoken about next between the two officers was forgotten as Mr Lang let out a desperate sounding gasp, his body trembling almost violently as his eyes glanced about him frantically. “Oh, my God.”

Striding across the Earl of Grantham stood in front of his valet as he enquired worriedly,

“Lang, are you all right, old chap?”

Thomas was already moving forwards, having already recognised the symptoms of a panic attack, when Mr Lang’s body lurched forwards uncontrollably. His trembling hands latched onto the first thing they found, the lapels of his employer’s tunic, and he buried his head against the fabric of the uniform he had no doubt spent hours preparing earlier that day.

“Come, come, man,” Robert murmured sympathetically, his hands hovering in the air as he obviously struggled to figure out what to do. “Things can't be as bad as all that. Carson?”

“Mr Lang?” Carson enquired as he approached, drawing the trembling man’s attention to him which allowed Thomas to sneak up behind him and take hold of him, pulling him gently away from the officer he clutched desperately at. Once he was far enough away that he had no choice but to let go Thomas altered his grip, pressing his chest to the man’s back whilst wrapping his bad arm around Lang's torso to keep him steady. His good hand was employed as something for the panicking valet to grab hold of tightly. “What has happened?”

“The general and all these officers, I don't have to go back with them, do I?” Mr Lang sobbed pathetically, slumping in Thomas’s grip as tears flooded down his face. “Because I _can't_ …”

“No,” Robert responded firmly. “No, you don't have to go back with them. Barrow…?”

“I've got him, sir,” Thomas responded, tightening his hold on the still sobbing valet. “It's a panic attack, brought about by the trauma he witnessed or experienced at the front.”

Major Clarkson murmured in agreement from where he was stood between Lady Cora and Mrs Crawley, both of whom look concerned by the turn of events. In the open doorway leaning heavily on her cane the Dowager Countess looked unusually stricken, her hand clutching at Sybil's arm whilst her large eyes gazed down upon Mr Lang's broken form.

“Sadly he's not the first case of Shell Shock I've come across, nor will he be the last,” Thomas continued softly. Robert sighed sadly. “I'll take him up to his room and get him settled.”

Almost everyone in the vicinity nodded in agreement and, much to Thomas's surprise, he found William already on Mr Lang's other side when he switched his hold on the man into one that was suitable for helping him to walk. Between the two of them it didn't take long to get the trembling valet up the ridiculous amount of stairs and into his small attic room.

“I'm…I'm sorry to be such a bother…” Mr Lang mumbled as he slowly began to come back to himself, his body responding more and more the closer they got to the sanctity of his bedroom. William opened the door, pushing it open so that they could deposit Mr Lang on his little bed as gently as they could. “I don't know why certain situations affect me so…”

“You're not alone, Mr Lang,” Thomas murmured, squeezing his stump through the leather straps surrounding it in an effort to combat an ache which was building in the muscle as did sometimes happen when he over-exerted himself. “And it's nothing to be ashamed of. I know people don't like to talk about it, that the British Army have always claimed that _shell shock_ is nothing more than a sign of weakness but they're wrong, Mr Lang. They're _wrong_.”

“I thought I was getting better…”

Thomas sighed sadly.

“I wish there was a magic pill I could give you but there isn't,” he murmured, dropping down to sit beside the other man as he continued to massage his aching stump. William hovered silently by the door, unwilling to interrupt. “They've only just begun scratching the surface, not only regarding how it should be treated but what causes it in the first place.”

“I see their faces in my dreams…” Mr Lang whimpered, pressing a hand to his mouth as though he wanted to stop the remainder of his tearful confession from coming out. “Joe, Bill, Harry, young Albert, George and all the others who never made it home…I see them lying there all torn apart…bits missing…blood everywhere…I can't _stop_ seeing them…”

“I don't know the names of the faces I see in my dreams,” Thomas admitted, biting his lip as his own confession caused his stomach to churn. “I was a stretcher bearer and sometimes we just…didn't get there in time, either that or we were expressly sent out to collect the bodies for burial. I see their faces and I know how they died but not who they were…”

“How do you cope?”

Thomas held up his prosthetic hand, touching his facial scars with the wooden fingers.

“I was near my breaking point when I was wounded,” he explained, his mind quickly supplying him with the memory of the night he'd almost got himself shot on purpose. William shifted, frowning. “I spent months in one hospital or another surrounded by men and women who understood, who worried and cared, who pestered me to keep going, to keep on struggling. But at the same time they let me be when I needed peace and solitude.”

Mr Lang nodded thoughtfully.

“They shipped me home and…my family didn't know what to do with me when I came out of the hospital…” he admitted softly, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “They didn't know what to say or how to act when really…I just wanted them to treat me like they always had…it's why I went back into service but perhaps that wasn't such a good idea after all…”

“Actually, I think you're wrong about that,” Thomas countered, his words causing Mr Lang to frown across at him. “Admittedly, this might have been a bit too…large…for you to cope with in regards to the families busy lifestyle and the size of the house but the structure that comes as part of a life in service is probably the reason you've been feeling better lately. You know where you need to be and what you need to be doing at any given point of the day. That leaves just the little decisions for your mind to worry about which, given its fragile state, is definitely a good thing. Routine brings order to chaos, both in life and in the mind.”

“…I don't think I can stay here…”

“Probably not, what with the significant military presence in the house,” Thomas agreed with him before pressing on with an obvious amount of sarcasm in his voice. “Trust me, I'm part of that military presence and it's _helping_ me about as much as it's _helping_ you.”

Mr Lang nodded, silently voicing his understanding and agreement.

“What you need is a position in moderately sized house, preferably in the country, where you can recover in peace,” Thomas continued, noticing William nodding his head in agreement. Mr Lang worried his lower lip between his teeth, his hands trembling as he fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt. “I could make some enquiries for you, if you'd like?”

“No,” the valet finally murmured, shaking his head resolutely. “I think…I think I shall go home and see my family for a little bit before trying again. Maybe…maybe if I tell them the things you've just told me they'll be able to treat me a little bit…a little bit more normally…”

Thomas nodded in agreement.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” he murmured. “And if you ever need to talk to someone who understands better than most you know where I am, even if it's just to vent.”

“…thank you…”

 

 **A/N** I was actually going to include the final scene between Mr Carson and Mr Lang in this, with Thomas added in, but didn't feel like it was necessary in the end so here you are. I've been doing lots of research into ‘ _Shell Shock_ ’ and PTSD in an effort to get my portrayal as accurate as possible but as always please allow for a little artistic licence here and there. Hope this chapter didn't disappoint. Comments & Suggestions always welcome. X


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Fifteen; England, 1917**

_“While Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his wish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was already on his way thither,”_ Thomas read aloud as he reclined against a tree with Edwards head pillowed in his lap, the latest book that he had been charged with reading to his companion held in one hand while the other played absently with Edwards hair. “Thither? _Thither_? Who on Earth says _thither_?”

“Jane Austen,” Edward responded simply. “Now stop grumbling, please, and get reading. I'm waiting to hear if Miss Elliot shall get her happily ever after with Captain Wentworth.”

_“Before Mrs. Croft had written, he was arrived and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him. Mr. Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs. Clay. They were in Milsom Street. It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter desirable for women, and quite…”_

Following the successful visit of General Strutt life at the convalescent hospital returned to normal and Thomas found himself with ringside seats for a war which was shaping up to be every bit as deadly as the one taking place on the Western Front; the war between Lady Cora and Mrs Crawley who had been charged with sharing the responsibility of running the civilian side of the convalescent hospital. Thomas was still in charge of the military matters answering directly to Major Clarkson who preferred to stay well out of the brewing conflict.

To be honest Thomas was more than happy to let the two privileged women squabble like a couple of children so long as it didn't interfere with his duties or his time spent with Edward.

_“…enough to make it very desirable for Miss Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady Dalrymple’s carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance: she, Anne and Mrs. Clay, therefore, turned into Molland’s, while Mr. Elliot stepped to Lady Dalry –”_

“Thomas?”

“Sybil?” Thomas enquired with a frown, looking up at the owner of the voice which had interrupted him. He found her approaching with an odd look on her face, a cross between hope, determination, nerves and a little bit of the Crawley pride. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she responded, dropping elegantly down to sit beside him. “Will you sing with me?”

“…I beg your pardon?”

“It's not a difficult question, Thomas,” Sybil responded teasingly. “I've been asked to participate in the benefit concert we're hosting later this month but I'd rather not perform alone. Edith and I don't have quite the same taste in music and Mary would run roughshod over me, not to mention she has her own plans to perform something or other…”

“…how did you know I could sing?”

“I didn't,” Sybil shrugged. “Can you? It would be very helpful if you can but its not necessary. At a charity concert it's the thought that counts, you know, not the level of performance.”

Edward snorted.

“Anyway, most of the acts are being put on by Nurses or patients so no one will expect perfection,” she continued confidently, obviously passionate about what she was saying. “Even Major Giles has put himself down to perform and he's lost most of his hearing.”

“As will the rest of us if he sings as loudly as he speaks…” Thomas muttered, earning himself a smack on the back of his hand for “being mean” from Sybil. “What would we even sing?”

“I thought we could give ‘ _Long, Long Trail_ ’ a go,” Sybil answered almost instantly, producing a sheet of music paper from the pocket of her apron and passing it over to him. “I found a nice version a while ago which would suite a male and female voice singing in harmony.”

He knew the song, that wasn't a problem, although these harmonies she spoke of could be.

“You do realise that songs about a soldier singing to his sweetheart, right?” he enquired, looking down at the sheet of paper which was covered in a mixture of lines, odd dots and printed words. “I don't know what your family would think about us singing that together.”

“I don't particularly care what they think,” Sybil responded with a shrug. “I shall be singing to Tom. You shall, no doubt, be singing to Edward. Not that anyone will know, either way.”

Edward hummed softly, apparently pleased with Sybil's deduction if his smile was anything to go by, and rolled his head so that his sightless eyes were gazing up towards Thomas. It had been some time since they've started using a moisturising cream Mrs Crawley had recommended on the scars around his eyes and, thanks to the soothing nature of the cream, the redness had almost completely disappeared leaving behind only the slightly rippled skin. It was a vast improvement, one which had given Edward significantly more confidence which in turn had made him more willing to learn how to cope with his blindness; trusting his memory to move around places which were now familiar to him such as the ward he slept in and the recreation room, using his cane to feel out unfamiliar or unpredictable places such as the gardens and had started learning how to read in Braille.

Thomas sighed resignedly,

“You want me to do it, don't you?”

“Yes,” Edward confirmed simply. “Thomas, you know that I enjoy listening to your voice…”

“Well, I know when I'm beaten…” Thomas muttered, running his fingers through Edward's wayward curls once more before glancing up at the smirking young woman. “Fine. I'll do it.”

“Excellent!” Sybil laughed happily, knocking her shoulder against his before peering down at the book resting on the thigh Edward wasn't using as a pillow, his prosthetic hand carefully positioned so as to hold the pages open. “Persuasion? I didn't know you like Jane Austen…”

“I don't,” Thomas responded. “Or rather, I didn't. But a certain someone is apparently a lover of romantic novels about silly young women and so we have been working our way through her famous works and, I will admit, she does have a certain something about her.”

“I always liked her use of humour,” Sybil admitted, prompting Edward to grunt in agreement. “That and the fact that her heroines were always so easy to understand, to connect to made them a favourite of mine growing up although _Persuasion_ was always my least favourite. It's so sad, compared to the others, although now that I'm older I think I understand it better. My favourite was always _Northanger Abbey_ , though, and many an afternoon was spent pretending to be the delightful if painfully naïve Catherine Morland.”

“I was always rather keen on _Sense and Sensibility_ as a boy,” Edward admitted, a fond smile gracing his relaxed features. “Although I had to hide my reading material from my parents. They would never have approved of me reading novels considered to be for young ladies.”

Sybil hummed thoughtfully.

“I used to think myself similar to Marianne Dashwood,” she admitted with a somewhat self-depreciating chuckle. “Now, though, I think it is my sister Mary who is the most like her; unable to see a perfect love when it was right under her nose she went of chasing a more appealing match only to be burned and now longs for that perfect match. Unfortunately, unlike her fictional counterpart, her perfect match has moved on rather than wait for her.”

Yes, Thomas thought to himself recalling the first book he had obligingly read to his favourite patient before they had admitted their feelings for one another, he'd have to agree with his friend on her comparison but that didn't change his opinion of Lady Mary.

She had brought her current unhappy circumstances on herself by throwing away a man who blatantly loved her when there was a possibility of him no longer inheriting the estate.

“Who would you compare yourself to now, then?” Edward enquired, frowning thoughtfully before smiling up towards Sybil as he offered some suggestions which caused her to blush a deep red. “Elinor Dashwood? No, too serious, I think. Fanny Price? No, far too shy and timid for our valiant Sybil Crawley. Anne Elliot? Easily influenced and heartbroken? I think not. Emma Woodhouse? Charming, pretty and from a good family? Yes. But a frivolous and selfish matchmaker? Certainly not. Elizabeth Bennett? Now, that one certainly has merit…”

“I'd like to think I'm like Elizabeth Bennett although recently I've found myself more inclined towards actions similar to that of Lydia Bennett,” Sybil admitted, her words confusing Thomas for a moment as he found himself unable to see the connection. “Entering into a clandestine relationship which will certainly upset my family. I've also, technically, run away or at least disobeyed their wishes by becoming a nurse and going away for my training.”

Having only recently finished _Pride and Prejudice_ his thoughts on the characters were still fresh in his mind and Thomas couldn't help but disagree entirely with her comparison.

“You are nothing like Lydia Bennet, Sybil,” he announced, shooting his friend a firm stare. She flushed in response, unable to hold his gaze. “You aren't vain, ignorant or idle and you certainly aren't a determined flirt who ruined her family’s good name. No, if you were to be compared to anyone it would most certainly be to Elizabeth Bennet. Intelligent. Charming. In love with a stubborn man who has a little too much pride than what is good for him…”

Sybil couldn't help but giggle, nodding her head as she agreed with that description of Tom.

The Irishman had been given a second chance following the “incident” as Mr Carson had taken to referring to it but was on very strict instructions regarding his behaviour and what was expected of someone in the Earl of Grantham's employ. Tom had huffed and puffed but Thomas’s words to him that night had obviously gotten through to him as he'd agreed to the conditions laid down upon him. He had refused to apologise for his actions, however, but that hadn't surprised anyone as they could all see how passionately he felt about the issue.

“We had a bit of a spat earlier, actually, me and Tom,” Sybil admitted softly, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair which had escaped her neat bun behind her ear. Thomas wasn't surprised by this news. “I wanted to know what his intentions were regarding…well…everything…and he told be that he believes that the real fight for Ireland isn't going to begin until this war has come to an end and that he wants to be a part of it. I was all ready to be angry with him, furious even, when he admitted that the only reason he'd stayed with us for so long was because of me, that he would stay at Downton until I was ready to leave with him...”

Thomas whistled appreciatively,

“Sounds serious…”

Sybil hummed in agreement.

“…what did you say?”

Blushing even more deeply than before Sybil cleared her throat before answering softly,

“I told him that as much as I loved him I couldn't imagine leaving until I was no longer needed at the hospital or before we were married. I'm willing to disobey my family to be with him but I can't in good conscience go anywhere with him until things are settled.”

“Had the two of you discussed marriage?” Edward enquired softly. “Before today, I mean?”

“…not in so many words…”

“So, basically, you proposed to him?” Thomas chuckled, trying to picture what Tom’s expression would have been like following that particular turn of events. Smiling sheepishly Sybil nodded, her cheeks flushing an even deeper red. “So not content with breaking the social norms by marrying someone of both a different class and faith you decided to add turning the convention of marriage proposals on its head to your list of achievements?”

Snorting uncontrollably the young woman nodded.

“Sybil, have I ever told you how utterly wonderful you are?” Thomas chuckled, completely sincere in his statement. Grinning broadly Edward voice his agreement, reaching out in search of one of Sybil's hands which he gave a gentle squeeze. “Dare I ask how he reacted?”

Unbuttoning the collar of her uniform Sybil reached inside, fumbling for a moment before drawing out a delicate gold chain upon which hung a single, gold ring. Even before she'd pulled the chain over her head and handed the ring to him Thomas could see what it was.

An engagement ring.

“He gave me this,” she answered softly. “It was his grandmother’s engagement ring.”

“Sybil, it's beautiful,” Thomas murmured, genuinely surprised by how nice the ring was. It must have cost a pretty penny when it was new and he couldn't help but wonder at how Tom’s grandfather had been able to afford it. “Looks a little bit big for you, though…”

“Yes,” Sybil concurred. “I've got to have it resized before I can wear it.”

“Describe it to me?” Edward requested as Thomas carefully handed the ring over to him, his fingers tracing the pattern created by the moulding and the small stones. “Diamonds?”

“Yes, but it has what appears to be an solitaire emerald at the centre of the design,” Thomas informed the him softly. “I'm not familiar with precious stones to know if it's genuine or not but it's a gorgeous green colour none the less. It needs a bit of a clean, no doubt it was much loved and cherished by it's previous owner, but you can tell the band is yellow gold.”

“It sounds perfect,” Edward murmured, holding the ring back out towards its rightful owner who spent a moment admiring it before slipping the chain back over her head and returning the important piece of jewellery to the confines of her uniform. “Congratulations, Sybil.”

Murmuring her thanks Sybil fixed her uniform and rose to her feet, brushing the grass from the back of her skirt. Now that Thomas knew what had occurred her could see the barely contained excitement and sheer joy in her eyes, in the way she held herself and moved.

“Obviously no one else knows so I'd appreciate your discretion for the time being…”

“Of course, Sybil.”

“…and I'll come and find you once out shifts have ended, Thomas, so we can practise.”

Ah, yes, the song for the concert...

He'd almost forgotten about agreeing to sing with her following her revelation.

“I'm happy for them,” he sighed, using his gold hand to straighten the book which had become lopsided at some point during their discussion. “They're good for each other.”

Edward must have picked up ones wistful tone of voice,

“You know I'd ask you to marry you if I could…”

“…you would?”

“Of _course_ I would!” Edward exclaimed passionately, sitting up suddenly so that he could roll up onto his knees beside Thomas, reaching out carefully until he could gently cradle the older man's jaw with his trembling hands. “You saved my life, Thomas, in more ways than one.”

Thomas tried to shake his head, to deny the claim, but Edwards hands held him completely still even as the surprisingly piercing gaze of his sightless eyes locked his own gaze in place.

“You are the missing part of my soul,” Edward continued, his voice thick with emotion as a single tear slipped down his cheek. Thomas, not one for crying, was closer to doing so than he had been in a long time. “If it were possible I'd marry you tomorrow, if you'd have me.”

 _“If I'd have you?”_ Thomas repeated thickly, bringing his own hand up to cup Edward's jaw whilst his prosthetic pressed against his side, book abandoned. “Of _course_ I'd have you…”

“Thomas…” Edward gasped, his breath hitching as his fingertips fluttered against Thomas’s lightly stubbled skin. “Thomas, I need…I need to...I need to kiss you…please, can I kiss you?”

Groaning deeply Thomas turned his head, checking that they were alone once more, and then nodded at which point he suddenly found himself with a lap full of British Officer as his lips were thoroughly plundered by the mesmerisingly soft lips of the young man he loved.

“…ugh…”

It had been a _long_ time since he'd been so intimate with another man, back when he had still been in the Duke of Crowborough’s favour, and he and Edward had done no more than kiss until this point in time but when he felt the smaller mans crotch come into contact with his own with only a few layers of fabric between them he couldn't stop himself from pushing his hips up off the ground, increasing the pressure of the contact between them.

Edward gasped against his lips, biting back what was unmistakably a whimper, as he moved his hands around to make a complete and utter mess of Thomas’s carefully styled hair, grinding his own hips downwards in a blatant attempt to recreate the pleasurable feeling.

“Thomas…” Edward _did_ whimper this time, seemingly unable to stop himself from rocking his hips down against those of the man beneath him. There was no denying the fact that both of them were achingly hard within the confines of their uniform trousers. “What…?”

“Edward…”

Stroking his thumb across the younger man's jaw one last time Thomas allowed his hand to move lower, trailing his fingertips across the gleaming brass buttons of Edward's tunic until he was able to slide his hand through the overlapping fabric beneath them, searching out the buttons of Edward's trousers. Because of his suicide attempt Edward wasn't allowed to wear a tie or belt, not even braces, due to the fact that he could attempt to harm himself with them not that he would; he had found a reason to live now. He wasn't going anywhere.

Thomas popped open the first two buttons with practised ease.

“Tell me to stop…”

“Why…would I do that?”

“Tell me to stop if this is going to fast…”

Edward's hands tightened their hold on Thomas's face as he responded firmly,

“I don't want you to stop.”

That was all the permission Thomas needed to slip his hand inside the officers trousers, teasing the smooth skin of his abdomen before finally slipping his fingers inside the loose undergarments supplied by the British Army to take his lover in hand. Edward let out a startled cry, his hands snapping down to grab hold of Thomas's shoulders as he bucked his hips upwards now, desperate to press himself against his lover’s apparently talented hand.

It was a glorious thing to watch, to know that he was responsible for driving this wonderful young man completely wild with pleasure as he stroked and squeezed him to completion.

Edward let out a startled cry, bringing one of his hands up to cover his mouth just in time to muffle the worst of it as his back arched, his body shuddering uncontrollably as he coated Thomas's hand and the inside of her underwear with his seed. If it weren't for Thomas wrapping his injured arm around Edward's waist to hold him in place the younger man would have toppled sideways following his climax when his body went completely limp somewhat unexpectedly, his breathing laboured as he pressed his face into Thomas's neck.

“Thomas…”

“I've got you…”

“That was…that was…” Edward mumbled, his lips tickling the sensitive skin of Thomas's neck which only served to make his own cock throb even more insistently between his legs. “I…”

Thomas found himself turning his head so that he could press a kiss to Edward's temple.

“I know…”

After a long moment, during which Thomas carefully extracted his hand and wiped it clean on the grass beside them, Edward seemed to come back to himself a little bit, sitting up straighter as he draped his arms across Thomas's shoulders and in doing so realised that…

“You're still hard.”

“Its fine,” Thomas murmured, surprised to find that he genuinely meant it. “I can –”

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by Edward moving one hand down to press against his insistent erection through his trousers, reducing his voice to a deep whimper.

“No…” Edward murmured, his voice soft as a whimper but as firm as iron. “Let me.”

As worked up as he was it wasn't at all surprising that it took only a couple of firm strokes once Edward had managed to gain access to his trousers for him to find his climax, biting down on his prosthetic hand to muffle his startled cry of pleasure whilst his good hand clutched at Edward's lapel. Given time he'd probably be embarrassed by how quickly he finished but in that moment he couldn't care less, searching out Edward's lips with his own in a gentle kiss as he slumped against the tree behind him, his arms around Edward's waist.

They didn't move from that spot for quite some time.

~ * ~

_“There's a long, long trail a-winding_

_Into the land of my dreams,_

_Where the nightingales are –”_

Thomas cut himself off with an annoyed hiss.

“Sorry,” he apologised to Sybil who was perched on the piano stool beside him, her hands fluttering less than perfectly over the keys as they rehearsed their song for the concert. It had seemed to be going well until they'd reached the chorus which was where the lovely harmonies had come in and Thomas had found himself singing something completely unfamiliar, nothing like the familiar tune at all. “That was wrong. I went down on dreams when I should have gone up and it threw me for the next line. Could we try it again?”

Sybil nodded, moving her hands into position, but before they could begin what was probably their fifteenth attempt a getting the song right the whole way through they were interrupted by the sound of a pair of heeled shoes marching across the wood flooring of the _Main Hall_ , prompting for both of them to glance towards the door just in time to see Mrs Crawley literally prowl across the room towards Lady Cora’s study looking rather annoyed.

“Oh, dear,” Thomas chuckled softly, sharing a look of merriment with Sybil. “Trouble.”

Sybil giggled softly just as a sharp set of knocks sounded and the two hushed each other so that they could hear what was said once the door had been opened only a moment later.

Mrs Crawley spoke first, her words polite, her tone anything but,

“May I have a word?”

Sybil sucked in a sharp breath, almost grimacing as she waited for her mother’s response and quite predictably Lady Cora didn't respond well to the disrespectful tone of voice, her voice adopting an even sharper edge than normal even as she answered almost dismissively,

“Can it wait?”

“No,” Mrs Crawley all but spat. “It _cannot_ wait.”

Unfortunately the pair of eavesdroppers the door slammed shut moments later, cutting them off from what would undoubtedly be a truly fascinating confrontation to witness.

“That is not going to end well,” Sybil muttered, turning her attention back to the sheet music laid out before them on the pianos music stand. “Should we go from the beginning?”

“Why not?”

_“Nights are growing very lonely,_

_Days are very long;_

_I'm a-growing weary only_

_List'ning for your song…”_

It wasn’t until the following day that Thomas, along with everyone else, found out what had happened. He had been catching up with Miss O’Brien during a quick tea break, joining her for a cigarette in the courtyard, and of course she knew everything.

“She’s _gone_?” Thomas repeated, somewhat incredulously. “Where?”

“Her Ladyship didn’t say,” O’Brien answered, blowing a plume of smoke up into the air in a rather unladylike manner as she perched on the bench alongside Thomas who placed his smouldering cigarette carefully in his saucer so that he could have a sip of his lukewarm tea. “She did say that she called Mrs Crawley’s bluff when she threated to leave. Apparently she believed that the hospital couldn’t run without her.”

Thomas chuckled softly.

That certainly sounded like something Mrs Crawley would do; threaten to leave in the hopes that her position would be reinforced by their pleas for her to stay. He could have told her that such a play wouldn’t work on Lady Cora given that she had raised three incredibly headstrong daughters who had tried every method to get their way growing up; tantrums, sulking, reverse psychology, blackmail. You name it, they tried it and Thomas could count on his remaining hand the times it actually worked.

“Did you hear about Bates?”

“…Bates?”

Mr Hughes, a valet with whom Thomas had become friendly with during a visit of his employers to Downton Abbey and whom was almost notorious a gossip as Miss O’Brien herself, had written to him the other day about a possible sighting of Mr Bates. He had been driven by genuine curiosity to respond, calling his friend in order to get the information that he had passed on to him properly confirmed, to double check it all.

He hadn’t been disappointed.

“He’s working in a pub,” Thomas relayed the information amidst a puff of smoke, picking a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue before continuing. “ _The Red Lion_ in Kirkbymoorside.”

“Bates in a pub?” O’Brien scoffed. “I can't see that. I think your pal's mistaken.”

Daisy hurried past them, pausing to give them a look before ducking inside.

“He met him there during the first year of the war, before he was sent over to France, and then again recently after he was wounded enough to be sent home to recover,” Thomas continued with his explanation, dropping the last remains of his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot before going through the motions to light another. “He remembered Bates from when he stayed here a couple of times when his employers visited the Crawley’s. Apparently Bates chose to ignore him.”

O’Brien chuckled mirthlessly.

“We’ll have to be careful,” she muttered as she crushed her cigarette butt. “Next thing you know, we'll have Anna running across the county to drag him back by his stick.”

“I’m actually surprised he isn’t here of accord,” Thomas muttered, brushing a wayward bit of ash from his tunic. “What with His Lordship having no valet again.”

“I guess we shall have to wait and see.”

Excusing himself from the company of his oldest comrade Thomas returned to his duties, checking on the patients in the private rooms and finding them well on their way to recovery thanks to the excellent care of the hospital. Only one of the officers housed on the first floor would be remaining with them past the end of the month, Major Lewisham, who had lost all but one of his limbs to the war and was struggling.

It didn’t help that his wife refused to bring his children to visit him.

Descending the grand staircase he found the officers dining hall a hive of activity as the patients helped themselves to the luncheon buffet put on by Mrs Patmore, the nurses helping those who were incapable of selecting their own food. Sybil was manning the tea urn with a level of skill and speed of movement which shouldn’t ever have been found in the daughter of an Earl and yet she filled each cup to _precisely_ the right height, ensured that the brew was neither too strong nor too weak and added just the right amount of milk all whilst keeping up a cheerful conversation.

Spotting Edward chatting with a fellow blind officer, also having been caught in a gas attack, he smiled to himself before making his way into the main ward to check on those still restricted to their beds. Most of them were new arrivals to the hospital, a couple still recovering from surgery, although one was a young officer whose soul seemed to have left him when he lost most of his jaw who had been with them from the start. He had suffered horrific scarring to his face, his own parents failing to recognise him when they had first visited, and had stopped speaking after finding that his voice had been as altered by the war as his appearance had. Were it not for their constant monitoring Thomas feared he would have ended himself long ago.

His afternoon was spent escorting Captain Grover to the train station, helping him to carry his belongings as he needed both hands to use his crutches. Once he was back at the hospital he helped to strip the Captains bed and prepare it for its next occupant by which time the evening meal was being laid out for the officers in the dining hall.

“Thomas, His Lordship would like a word.”

The request came just as he was about to sit down for his own dinner down in the servants hall, much to his annoyance, but he had no choice but to follow Mr Carson into his pantry where the Earl of Grantham awaited him looking less than pleased.

“What’s this I hear about you knowing where Mr Bates is currently employed?”

Thomas shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Miss O’Brien had shared the news with Lady Cora who had, in turn, shared it with her husband but he was.

“…a friend of mine _believes_ he saw Mr Bates, My Lord.”

Robert huffed,

“Didn't it occur to you that we might be interested to hear it?”

“Not particularly,” Thomas answered, feigning honesty even though he’d known all along that this particular member of the Crawley family would have been desperate for any news of his beloved comrade in arms. “As far as I knew, Mr Bates had left your employment.”

“You didn't think to tell Carson?”

And didn’t that query rankle him almost as much as the man’s love of Mr Bates…

“I'm not under Mr Carson's command now, Your Lordship.”

“Mr Carson,” Robert turned his attention to the other man. “If you would please pass my thanks over to Miss Robinson for passing along such vital information to me.”

“Of course, Your Lordship.”

Thomas huffed softly. So it hadn’t been Miss O’Brien who had shared information which wasn’t hers to share, it had been Daisy. The kitchen maid must have overheard more of their conversation than he’d realised when she’d passed them that morning.

As the hospital staff were the last to eat of an evening the servants were already relaxing about the servants hall when he returned to the room, Miss O’Brien perched by the fire reading a magazine whilst Ethel took up a rather large portion of the table with her knitting patterns, balls of wool and whatever it was that she was creating.

Daisy rose from her spot at the table just as he entered, allowing him to intercept her exit from the room and block her path with his larger body. She frowned up at him.

“Thank you, Daisy,” Thomas spoke clearly, his tone making it perfectly clear that he was far from thankful which drew the attention of all those present to the two of them, pausing in their tasks. “For telling Mr Carson all about my _private_ letter.”

“I didn't know it was a secret,” Daisy defended herself nervously, her cheeks flushing a brilliant red as she felt multiple pairs of eyes upon her. “Sorry if I was wrong.”

Thomas scoffed, his cold demeanour from before the war coming out of hiding,

“There's no _if_ about it.”

Mumbling another uncertain apology Daisy scurried around him, allowing him to take his place at the table where his now lukewarm dinner awaited him. He was the last person to eat that day, the nurses dining at the same time as him just finishing.

“Why answer His Lordship at all?”

“What did you want me to do?” Thomas muttered, glancing briefly across at Miss O’Brien before beginning the difficult task of chopping up his food with his the blunt side of his fork, reducing the slice of pie, roast potatoes and vegetables to manageable chunks. Sadly, in regards to eating utensils, his prosthetic was of no use whatsoever as it couldn’t hold them in any sort of useable manner. “Tell him to get knotted?”

“He doesn't pay your wages.”

“I'll say,” Thomas muttered, taking his first mouthful of pie and finding it as delicious as he expected it to be, if almost stone cold by now. She obviously hadn’t considered the fact that even though his post was an honourary one His Lordship was still an officer his the British Army and was therefore Thomas’s superior and was therefore to be obeyed at all times. “But I won't put you down for a career in diplomacy, then.”

“What's he after?” Miss O’Brien pressed grouchily. “To get Bates back?”

“If Mr Bates wanted his job back, he'd have written for it himself.”

“Why would he want his job back?” Ethel piped up with a genuine frown, her knitting needles coming to a halt as she stared across at Thomas. “He's like you, he got away.”

Thomas shot her a quick glare,

“He’s nothing like me, thank you very much…”

“But you're both free of all the bowing and scraping and the _‘Yes, My Lord’_ and _‘No, My Lord.’_ I envy him,” Ethel muttered, her eyes filled with jealousy and resentment. “I envy you. 'Cause I'm ready for a new adventure and I don't care who hears me.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Miss O’Brien sighed. “Be careful what you wish for.”

~ * ~

 **A/N** Extracts used at the beginning of the chapter are from 'Persuasion' by Jane Austen. Comments & Suggestions welcome. X


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Sixteen;  
England, 1917 **

“And there's she goes,” Thomas muttered, his tone both regretful and sympathetic, catching sight of Ethel who was making her way along the long drive with her small suitcase in hand as he led Edward across the lawn towards the gardens. “Stupid girl.”

“Who?”

“One of the housemaids,” Thomas explained softly, taking a puff from his cigarette before passing it carefully over to the visually impaired officer so that he could take his turn inhaling some of the precious tobacco, something that was becoming rather scarce the longer the war stretched on. He had an ulterior motive, of course, when it came to sharing his cigarettes with Edward; they couldn't be overtly romantic in public, not even with them using Edward's blindness as an excuse, and so passing a cigarette between their lips felt significantly more intimate than it actually was. It helped that it was something everyone did, even Thomas and Sybil, but it only had a deeper meaning between the two of them. “She got caught with one of the officers last night, if you know what I mean, and has been dismissed without reference.”

“Poor girl.”

“She's not entirely to blame, of course,” Thomas conceded, recalling how gullible she had always appeared to be whenever he'd spoken to her, how easily led she had been on countless incidents which was a dangerous trait for a pretty girl to have. “Which is why Major Bryant, the officer in question, has politely been asked to vacate the property as soon as Major Clarkson deems him fit to travel. If he's well enough to be sneaking around with one of the housemaids then he is well enough, at least in my humble opinion, to spend the remainder of his convalescence in his own home.”

Edward sighed deeply, offering the cigarette back with practised ease.

“Hardly seems fair that she receives the worst punishment when we all know what an officers uniform and a tall tale of bravery or impending demise can do to even the most chaste of young women,” he murmured sadly, adjusting his grip of Thomas’s prosthetic hand ever so slightly. He’d left his walking stick behind _by accident_ in order to give him an excuse to link his arm with Thomas’s, to give him a reason to stand so close. “I know Major Bryant, from before, and he left a string of broken hearts and potentially ruined lives from Dover to Ypres. The man is an utter cad.”

“I know,” Thomas murmured, watching as Ethel paused to glance back over her shoulder towards the grand house, her free hand coming up to wipe the tears clearly visible on her face before she finally squared her shoulders and disappeared from sight. “Sadly that's how the world works; he's an Officer which supposedly makes him a gentleman and she's nothing more than a gullible young housemaid.”

“Still…”

“Lieutenant Courtenay!” the familiar husky voice of Sybil Crawley interrupted their conversation, prompting them to pause in their journey towards the gardens for their morning walk as they heard her hurrying towards them. She was dressed in her starched uniform although, as per usual, her cap was a little bit crooked. “I was wondering if it would be possible for me to join you for your walk this morning?”

Even Thomas, who wasn't completely reliant on his hearing to get by as Edward was, could pick up on the barely concealed tension in her voice. When paired with the furrow between her sculpted eyebrows, eyebrows which were unusually tense, it was obvious that something had greatly upset his normally good natured friend. The fact that she was attempting to act as though nothing was wrong confirmed Thomas's immediate assumption that it had something to do with her secret relationship.

“Of course, Nurse Crawley,” Edward murmured respectfully, aware of the other people scattered around the lawn for their own morning exercise. “I'd be delighted.”

Sybil let out a sigh of relief, slipping her arm through his on the opposite side to Thomas. She smelled strongly of scent, as though she had only just applied some.

Once they had entered the walled gardens and were therefore hidden from view Sybil let out a deep sigh, her body slumping beside Edward even as she continued to walk alongside them, her arm tightening on his without meaning to. Thomas smirked.

“Sybil?” he enquired. “What’s happened?”

“...you know me _far_ too well, Thomas Barrow,” Sybil grumbled, shooting a playful glare across at her friend. “As much as I do enjoy walking with the two of you I will admit to having an ulterior motive today. I needed to be with people who would understand, people I could _talk_ to. Not to mention I need a break from my family…”

“Oh, dear,” Thomas sighed deeply, pulling away from Edward in order to retrieve another cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with the one held between his lips. This second cigarette was then passed over to his grateful friend. “Who’s said what now?”

Sybil huffed.

“Granny,” she answered after taking a deep drag from the cigarette in a wonderfully unladylike manner. Thomas didn't think he'd ever stop being amused by the sight of the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham smoking like a servant. “And Mary.”

“No surprises there, I'm afraid,” Thomas muttered. “What was said?”

“Oh, Granny was on _top form_ last night during dinner. She said, and I’m quoting here because I don't think I'll ever forget the words or implications, that _sometimes in war, one can make friendships that aren't quite…appropriate. And can be awkward, you know, later on. I mean, we've all done it. I just want you to be on your guard,_ ” Sybil responded, doing an almost perfect impression of the Dowager Countesses accent and mannerisms. “I think it's pretty obvious who she was referring to and exactly what she was implying; someone has told her about Tom and I. That’s what she means by _not being quite appropriate_ , and I’m almost certain it was Mary.”

“And what did Mary have to say?” Thomas asked. “I assume you’ve confronted her?”

“She just cornered me in the hallway. She claims not to have been the one to tell Granny; that it was just Granny being Granny, but how else could she have known?” Sybil huffed even louder than before, glaring at the cigarette she held as though it was the root of all evil. “Apparently everyone thinks I have a beau and because I'm not shouting his name from the roof then I must be keeping him a secret for a reason…which I _am_ but only because I _knew_ something like this would happen!”

“So does this mean Mary now knows about Tom? About your engagement?”

“…well…she _didn't_ …”

“…but she does now,” Thomas concluded. “Heat of the moment confession, was it?”

“Yes, but only because she was being so…so rude and dismissive about Tom,” Sybil confirmed, her cheeks flushing a bright shade of pink. Edward squeezed her wrist.  “She implied that I was delusional to even consider any sort of a relationship with a servant. In fact she went so far as to point out that this isn't some fairyland where I can marry the chauffeur and they'd all come to tea! I _know_ that! I _know_ none of them will understand or approve but…but I don't care and I told her…I told her that…”

“…that you'd already accepted Tom’s proposal.”

Sybil bit her lip, hesitating for a moment before explaining softly,

“…actually I implied that I couldn't marry anyone else since Tom and I had…had…”

Thomas’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“ _Sybil_!” he all but shrieked, genuinely shocked. “Have you and Tom…?”

“ _No_!” Sybil gasped sharply, her cheeks deepening to a bright red colour out of sheer embarrassment. “We've kissed but that's all. I swear. I merely implied that we… _had_ so that Mary would…oh… _I don't know_ …realise that there's nothing she can do to stop us from getting married. Because there _isn't_. Papa can…can disown me for all I care!”

The hand holding her cigarette was flung wide as she continued dramatically,

“I _love_ Tom. I'm going to _marry_ Tom. And one day I’m going have Tom's _children_.”

Thomas couldn't hold back a loud snort in response to her final, childish statement.

“Well, I am...” Sybil huffed, obviously a little embarrassed by her dramatic outburst. She'd allowed herself to get carried away, caught up in the heat of the moment, and now she struggled to compose herself. “I'm sorry to put this all on the two of you but I needed to talk to someone who knows everything. Someone who understands.”

Altering the way their arms were linked Edward took her hand in his, linking their fingers together before giving it a gentle squeeze, his thumb lightly stroking across her smooth skin. Thomas, on the other hand, was grinning to himself as he was struck by how similar Sybil was to Flora, the other young nurse he considered to be more of a friend than a colleague who was still serving overseas; both young women had a habit of getting carried away when they were passionate about something or if they were upset or, particularly in Flora’s case, simply if no one tried to stop them.

And speaking of Flora…

“Did I tell you I had another letter from Nurse Marshal this morning?”

“Didn't she just write to you last week?” Edward responded softly, his voice filled with concern as he turned his head to frown across at his partner. Flora wrote regularly but, due to the delayed postage brought about by the war and her hectic lifestyle, they usually received one letter every fortnight. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Thomas hurried to reassure him, knowing how much Edward cared about the young woman he'd never met. She’d saved Thomas’s life and, to Edward, that meant that she'd saved both of their lives; without Flora there would have been no Thomas and without Thomas there would have been no Edward. “It's good news, actually.”

Sybil arched a delicate eyebrow, obviously curious.

She too had heard plenty of tales regarding the young nurse who had managed to do what she had been unable to achieve; to apply for an overseas posting and volunteer her services as close to the front line as nurses, or VAD’s, were permitted to get.

It had been enough of a struggle to get her family to allow her to pursue her desire to become a nurse in the first place, Granny's approval finally tipping the balance in her favour, but they'd put their foot down on her going to France. They’d refused to sign the necessary forms that she’d needed as she'd been under the age of twenty-three when she'd begun her training, that being the minimum age for overseas postings.

 

“Flora, along with several of the other VAD’s who've been out there for the majority of the war, is being transferred back to England,” Thomas recounted the contents of the letter, patting his pocket to see if he had it on him. He didn’t, having left it in his room after he’d popped back upstairs. “She's none too pleased as she wanted to stay until the wars end but apparently, due to her _exemplary service record_ , she has no choice. However she _was_ allowed to choose where she wants to be transferred to…”

“…she's coming here, isn't she?”

“Yes,” Thomas confirmed, smiling at the thought of seeing his saviour again. “She could have chosen anywhere in the country, could have been close to her family but she chose the Convalescent Hospital at Downton Abbey. There was no confirmed date, as of yet, but she's been warned it could be anything as soon as next month.”

Both Edward and Sybil agreed that this was wonderful news, insisting that Thomas write back at once and inform Flora that they were looking forward to finally meeting her. He agreed and their walk, such as it was, was cut short with Edward promising to take another turn around the gardens with him later on to make up for it, and they headed back towards the house so that Thomas could begin constructing his reply.

As far as the rest of the day was concerned nothing unusual happened; the patients were as cheeky as ever, lunch passed uneventfully with only two of the officers having trouble with it and even then only one of them bringing it back up, the patient who had arrived the day before had settled in nicely and the visitors came and went without too much fuss and both being made; wives and mothers and children flocking around the brave soldiers they had travelled far and wide to be able to see.

It wasn’t until after his second walk with Edward, one that took nearly three quarters of an hour due to the fact that the two lovers got so caught up in each other once they were safely out of sight, when Thomas headed downstairs to have his late dinner having covered the main ward during the normal dinner time for the staff and nurses that his day took an unexpected turn with the unforeseen return of a familiar face.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Thomas muttered suddenly, glancing towards the young orderly sat beside him who was all but inhaling his dinner. Billy had been covering the other ward. “Is there any relation between you and Nurse Rawlings?”

“I don’t _think_ so,” the young orderly responded, fork poised to deliver another chunk of baked potato into his mouth. “Both my parents were only children but I think my father has a younger cousin. Perhaps she’s his wife…or daughter…I hadn’t thought about it. Rawlings isn’t a very common name, is it? I shall have to ask my mother.”

Thomas smiled, opening his mouth to reassure the boy that there was no need to bother his mother with such a trivial enquiry just to satisfy his curiosity but before he could form even a single word the familiar voice of Mrs Hughes interrupted them all,

“Come away in and give some substance to the gossip of your return.”

And who should walk into the crowded servant’s hall than none other than Mr Bates, followed closely by Mrs Hughes herself, Anna and Mr Carson who announced,

“You'll find things a bit different from when you left, Mr Bates.”

Mr Bates smiled around at the familiar and unfamiliar faces, pausing for a moment to take in the different uniforms before settling on Thomas for a moment, his expression hardening for a moment before he turned to smile up at Mr Carson,

“Downton at war, you mean?”

“Precisely,” Mr Carson responded imperiously, clasping his hands behind his back. “There's some extra help in the kitchen to help our own staff cope with the vastly increased numbers. And the nurses and orderlies, of course, who I'm sure you'll do meet in due course. The orderlies have taken a couple of rooms in the male servants quarters whilst the Nurses are being housed in a couple of the smaller guest rooms.”

“Except for Lady Sybil,” Anna piped up cheerfully. “Who's staying in her old room.”

Thomas couldn’t stop himself from correcting the besotted young woman,

“Nurse Crawley, please.”

All four of them turned to frown at him, prompting Thomas to offer them a mental shrug as he brought a piece of pie crust up to his lips with the use of his good hand.

“So, we've both returned, you and I,” Mr Bates murmured, watching Thomas closely as he used his fork to cut a roast potato in half with practised ease. His prosthetic wasn’t good for anything more than steadying the plate. “Couple of bad pennies.”

“So we have,” Thomas responded. “Although on my part it's only temporary.”

“Thomas means he's not here as a servant,” Miss O’Brien piped up as he carefully chewed the delicious chunk of potato. “He manages the house. He's a Sergeant now.”

“I take orders from Major Clarkson,” Thomas explained, leaning his fork against the edge of his plate as he reached out for his glass of water, requiring a sip of the cool liquid before he continued. “He runs this place on behalf of the army medical corps.”

“Yet another reason to pray for peace…” Bates muttered, not quite softly enough for it to be missed by everyone on the room although only Mrs Hughes reacted, smiling across at him. “I heard about William from His Lordship. And Captain Crawley.”

“I'm sure they're all right,” Anna hurried to reassure him. “They…”

“What about William and Captain Crawley?” Thomas enquired with a frown as he carefully placed his glass back on the table, not having heard anything mentioned about the two serving soldiers. Mr Bates frowned. “Has something happened?”

“I meant to tell you,” Miss O’Brien murmured apologetically, drawing his attention across to his former conspirator. His frown deepened. “They may or may not be missing. Apparently William had promised to visit Daisy whilst home on leave and…”

“He hasn't,” Thomas concluded. “Have they actually been posted missing?”

Anna nodded, obviously shaken. 

Thomas grimaced, his mind supplying an image of William as he had last seen him in his perfectly presented uniform only to replace it equally as quickly with an image born of his worst memories; William, lying in a crater surrounded pool of his own blood and brains, a large hole in the centre of his forehead above his clouded eyes.

This horrific image was soon replaced by a similar one of Captain Crawley; half of his handsome face missing, revealing an alarming amount of blood and bone and brains.

He flinched, glancing down to find had hand clenched into a fist beside his plate.

“… _damn_ …”

Mr Bates wasn’t the only one to frown at him, confused by his obvious reaction.

“…I’m sure they’ll be fine,” he eventually managed to murmur, pushing himself up from the table as his stomach clenched. “If you’ll excuse me I…I have work to do.”

He slipped out of the room, heading up the stairs just as he heard the back door open and close, admitting someone who was obviously in as great a hurry as he was.

Up and up he climbed until he reached the top floor at which point he was able to throw himself into the bathroom, locking the door behind him before emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He couldn’t get the images his mind had created out of his mind and, all too soon, they were accompanied by more faces of men who he had failed to help, men who had died before he could retrieve them.

It was hard for him to imagine something like that happening to William, the younger footman having always been so animated, so full of life and Captain Crawley was one of the few officers who had earned his respect whilst he’d been in France, the heir to the estate never putting himself above others and always getting stuck in.

He truly hoped there was another explanation for their absence.

A miscommunication of when they were due back…

A delay in their journey home, caused by the weather, perhaps, or overcrowding…

A lost communication…

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing at the smell now assaulting his senses, he quickly reached out to pull the chain so as to flush the toilet, banishing the evidence of his strong reaction to both the news and the vivid images in his mind.

Pushing himself to his feet he crossed to the sink, using his hand to scoop some water into his mouth so that he could get rid of the foul taste which was lingering on his tongue, never once lifting his eyes to mirror hanging on the wall above the small sink.

He didn’t need to know how he looked just then.

Exiting the bathroom he found, mercifully, that no one had followed him up to the servant’s level allowing him to head back down to the wards uninterrupted. He had duties to perform, yes, but mostly he just needed to see Edward, to speak to Edward, to reassure himself that it was possible for good, honourable men to survive the war.

He found his love already in bed, dressed in his pyjamas. Edward wasn’t asleep, however; rather he was leaning against the metal frame of his bed as he listened to one of his neighbours reading aloud from ‘ _The Jungle Book_ ’ by Rudyard Kipling.

“Good evening, Sergeant Barrow,” the young officer murmured, pausing in his careful recital of the popular tale. “Are you…are you alright? You look a little…pale…”

“Dinner didn’t agree with me,” Thomas lied automatically. “Nothing important.”

Edward frowned.

“I hate to be a pain but you couldn’t help me to the bathroom could you, Sergeant?” he asked suddenly, pushing the blankets off of his long legs even as his sightless eyes peered up towards where Thomas was standing. “I find myself in need of the toilet.”

“Of course, sir,” Thomas responded, reaching out to steady Edward. “No problem.”

Thomas took hold of Edward elbow, keeping his touch impartial and professional, and began to guide him out of the room, pausing along the way to help Major Griffin fix the bandage on his arm which had somehow managed to become much too loose.

“Thomas?” Edward murmured worriedly once they were in the hall. “What’s wrong?”

“Memories,” Thomas answered simply, continuing to lead Edward to the toilet so as to keep up the act. “And…an old… _acquaintance_ has returned to the house and Captain Crawley is missing, along with William who used to be a footman here.”

Helping Edward into the bathroom the patients were expected to use Thomas checked that the coast was clear before following him inside, locking the door behind them. Almost immediately he was pulled into the comforting arms of his lover.

“I couldn’t…I couldn’t stop myself from picturing them…”

Edward hushed him, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Thomas’s mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured sincerely. “I wish I could say they’ll be fine.”

“It’s not so much they they’re missing that’s affected me,” Thomas mumbled, pressing his face against Edwards’s neck. “More the memories it’s stirred up.”

“I understand…”

“Although I _am_ worried about them being missing…”

“I know you are…”

Silence, broken only by their breathing, stretched out for a long moment before Thomas finally whimpered, his hands clutching at Edward’s hips as he requested,

“Talk about something else. Anything else. I need…I need to stop seeing them…”

“Alright…” Edward sighed. “I…I can’t face the idea of going home…”

That was _not_ what Thomas had been expecting him to say but it worked, his tortured thought’s coming to an abrupt halt as he leaned back to study Edward’s tanned face.

“But…” he mumbled, suddenly realising that despite all of the conversations they had had they’d never truly discussed what they were going to do once this awful war was finally at an end. “Ok. If you’re not going to go to your home then where will you go?”

“My family have a _pied-a-terre_ in London,” Edward explained, one of his hands moving to rest against Thomas’s strong jaw. “I think…I think I shall suggest to my parents that I would be best suited there. I don’t think I’ll have much opposition, not with my younger brother so eager to take over the running of the estate and farm.”

“That…” Thomas mumbled, struck dumb with positive thoughts of the future for a long moment. It was easy for him to picture them in London. “That sounds perfect…” “And I thought perhaps you might like to come with me,” Edward pressed on quickly, biting his lip in a display of nervousness. Thomas gasped, unable to stop himself. “We could tell people that you were my manservant, my eyes as it were, when really you would be my lover, my companion…the person that I cannot live without…” “That…” Thomas all but whimpered, a smile beginning to dominate his features even as he leaned forwards to press his lips to Edwards. “…sounds even more perfect…”

~ * ~

****A/N** Apologies for the long wait for an update – I attempted (and failed) another writing challenge but now I’m back. I’ve also (finally) managed to get this story mapped out to the end so I know exactly where I’m going with it and how long it will take me to get there. Hope you enjoyed this latest update. X **


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Seventeen; England, 1917**

_It’s funny, the things you find yourself willing to do for your friends and loved ones; the kind of things that you would never have imagined doing before._

_Standing up to a superior officer, not only a superior officer but also your commanding officer; someone who, even before the war, had held a higher station than you could ever hope to achieve. Arguing with them until you got your way._

_Read the same selection of books aloud so many times that you pretty much have them committed to memory, particularly the half-a-dozen favourites of your lover._

_Singing. In public. Putting yourself up for endless ridicule and humiliation in the form of a concert performance all because a friend didn’t want to perform alone._

_Leaving service for good but keeping up the farce so as to protect the man you love._

_Moving to dirty, smelly London despite the fact that you much prefer being in the country, that you much prefer wide open fields to towering buildings and roads._

_It’s funny, the things you find yourself willing to do for your friends and loved ones; the kind of things that you would never have imagined doing before._

~ * ~

In contrast to most of the other occupants of the grand house Thomas woke not with a feeling of excitement for the day ahead but with a feeling of dread; the day of the concert had finally arrived. Come the evening he would be stepping out onto the “stage” alongside the youngest daughter of the house to perform, to sing in public.

Just the thought of it was enough to make his stomach churn uncomfortably.

Part of him wished he’d turned Sybil down when she asked him initially, wished he’d been able to resist Edward, but it was too late now; the running order had already been drawn up by an _artistic soul_ and had been put on display for everyone to see.

A bird chirped loudly outside his window which he’d left on the latch overnight in an effort to combat the stuffy heat permeating the servant’s floor. He chuckled to himself, twisting his body so as to place his feet on the floor, servants rooms were _never_ the right temperature. Too cold in the winter. Too hot in the summer.

It was an unfortunate fact of life in service which you just had to learn to put up with.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, more out of habit than anything else given that he was half-blind, he rose from his bed and made his way across to the little sink in the corner of the room. The water was refreshingly cool, helping him to wake up. That too was subject to the time of year, of course, as the only hot water available on the servants level was in the actual bathrooms and then it was more lukewarm than hot.

Working with a swiftness that came from years of getting ready under these very circumstances it took him only a few minutes to remove the stubble from his face with his safety razor and used just enough pomade to style his hair how he wanted it.

His pyjamas were removed and folded neatly, hidden from view beneath his pillow, and then, after he’d donned a fresh pair of underpants, he set about donning his prosthetic. It didn’t take him as long as it once had, given that he’d figured out which straps to do up first through trial and error, and in no time at all was pulling on his uniform piece by piece, using his simple button hook to do everything up properly.

A final glance in the small mirror hung on the wall confirmed that he was as smart as his personal standards required him to be, although there was a small piece of white thread caught in the brass ‘RAMC’ badge on his right shoulder. It could have come from anywhere, a bandage or perhaps a bedsheet, not that its origin really mattered; all that mattered was that it was easy to get rid of so that he could head downstairs.

In comparison with lunch and dinner, breakfast was almost always the most crowded with the nurses and orderlies dining at the same time as the servants so that the patients could be fed at around about the same time that the family either emerged for their morning meal or, in Lady Cora’s case, rang for their breakfast tray to be brought up to them. As such it was every man and woman for themselves, snatching the food as soon as it was placed in the centre of the table on the large sharing plates.

The teapot was like a religious idol, gazed at and guarded.

“Here, Thomas,” Daisy murmured as he took the recently vacated seat between Anna and Private Rawlings. She handed him a steaming cup of tea. “It’s from a fresh pot.”

“Thank you, Daisy,” Thomas responded softly, ignoring the look Mr Bates was giving him. It appeared that the older man was envious of his fresh cup of tea, that and he was obviously confused by Thomas’s change of attitude. “Any word from William?”

“None,” she sighed heavily. “I…I’m starting to get really worried…”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Thomas interrupted her, placing his prosthetic hand beside his plate to steady it as he snatched a piece of cold toast from the plate and began to spread butter on it. He could feel several eyes upon him, watching him as discretely as they could although Mr Bates didn’t even attempt to conceal his fascination. “He’s a clever lad. There’s probably a horrendously mundane reason for his absence…”

Daisy offered Thomas a grateful smile before disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving him to enjoy his breakfast in relative peace. Toast, even cold, was a favourite of his when smothered with a layer of butter and a good helping of thick marmalade.

“…are you _really_ performing in the concert, Sergeant Barrow?”

Before he could answer Billy’s question Sybil hurried into the room still pinning her cap into place. She alternated between dining with her family and her co-workers so as to keep everyone happy although, judging by the nervous shuffling of the servants they still weren’t used to dining with the youngest daughter of their employer.

“He is indeed,” she confirmed brightly, frowning somewhat adorably up at her hands as she struggled with the last of her hair pins. “…blast this stupid…sodding… _thing_ …”

She cut herself off with a triumphant cry when she finally got the pin to hold in the correct place, finally securing her cap in place atop her carefully controlled curls.

Thomas chuckled at Anna’s scandalised expression.

“Billy, here’s a simple little life lesson which you should always remember should you want to live a happy and relatively peaceful life,” Thomas spoke up, smirking at the young man seated beside him. The young soldier frowned. “When a woman asks you to do something; do it. It’s far less painful than trying to refuse them, believe me.”

“What are you trying to say?” Sybil demanded, dropping down into an empty seat at the other end of the table. This caused another uncomfortable flutter amongst the servants as those of a _lower station_ such as the hall boys sat at that end. “Thomas?”

“Nothing bad, Nurse Crawley,” he responded, turning his smirk on her. She responded with a carefully arched eyebrow. “Just that women will always get their way in the end so it saves us men a lot of pain and suffering to give in straight away.”

Sybil hummed thoughtfully.

“…fair point,” she eventually giggled, turning to share a smile with her fellow nurses before announcing calmly, “Sergeant Barrow’s actually got a lovely singing voice.”

Mr Bates sniggered in response to her statement, no doubt disbelieving her.

Glancing towards the other man briefly Thomas met his gaze for a long moment before glancing away, smiling to himself as he finished the last of his toast; what did it matter what Mr Bates thought? His singing, however good or bad it was when the time came, would make Sybil and, more importantly to him, Edward happy. And what was a little embarrassment when their continued happiness was at stake?

The house was in a state of semi-controlled chaos for most of the day as the last few details regarding the concert were sorted but which meant Thomas was unable to spend as much time with Edward as he would have liked but his lover understood.

“Sergeant Barrow?”

Thomas turned away from the bed he had been stripping to find one of the hall boys.

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering…um…if you’d like me to polish the wood and metal parts of your…your…” he trailed off, cheeks and rather prominent ears flushing. “Only Major Thompson asked me to do his before the concert and Mr Carson said I should offer to do everyone else’s as well, it being a special occasion. I’ve got six to do already…”

Thomas smiled, glancing down at his wooden appendage. Major Clarkson had only just begun fitting some of the patients with prosthetic limbs a couple of weeks ago and already they were proving to be very popular, the men who had received them experimenting with what they could do and how long they could wear them before their limbs grew either too raw from the friction or too tired from the added weight.

It was just false hands and arms for the moment, though; no legs as of yet.

“That would be much appreciated…?”

“Paul,” the boy supplied his name when Thomas trailed off pointedly. “Paul Ross.”

“Much appreciated, Paul,” Thomas concluded with a small smile. “Thank you.”

Removing the artificial limb in the middle of the ward, very much aware of the number of eyes watching him with a somewhat morbid fascination, Thomas handed the wooden hand over to the teenaged boy. The leather straps which kept the limb in place hung loose, the buckles jingling noticeably. Thomas frowned thoughtfully.

“You couldn’t give the leather straps a once over with some oil, could you?” he requested, smirking slightly as Paul awkwardly cradle the limb. “I’ve been meaning to do so to see if it would help ease the pinching but haven’t had the time.”

“Of course, Sergeant Barrow,” Paul agreed without hesitation, offering him a rather gap toothed smile. The boy would never win any awards for beauty, that was for certain, but he seemed nice enough. “I’ll get it back to you as quickly as possible.”

He honestly hadn’t realised his accustomed to having his prosthetic he’d become until he was forced to go without it for a couple of hours, how much he had adjusted the way he did things to incorporate the wooden hand with the fingers extended or closed in. It took him a surprisingly long time to recall how best to utilise his stump.

 _Perhaps I should try to keep up working without it every now and then_ , he thought to himself as he struggled to change the dressing on what little remained of Major Rivers left leg, just to keep his hand in… _ugh_ , he sniggered silently, _no pun intended._

All too soon the hour was upon them.

Their guests, a mixture of patients, visiting family members, people from the village and several local dignitaries, were all seated. Well, not quite _all_ as several were gathered at the back of the large room as there weren’t enough seats and priorities went to the patients and elderly. Edward had volunteered to stand, given that his body perfectly whole, as had some of the other _visually impaired_ patients.

The area being used as the stage was set with just the upright piano and its stool.

The performers were ready and waiting, dotted around the room.

“No going back now,” Sybil muttered, shifting nervously beside him as her father welcomed them all to the evening’s performance. “I’m glad we’re not going first…”

Thomas was _incredibly_ grateful they weren’t going first.

It was Lieutenant Compton who stepped up first, his face swathed in bandages.

“I’d like to begin by explaining a couple of important facts,” the young officer spoke calmly and clearly, his accent as plum as any that Thomas had ever heard and not at all distorted by the yards of fabric covering his burned skin. “Firstly that I cannot sing a note and so, to save your poor ears, I shall be reciting a piece of poetry for you this evening. And secondly that I’ve always been a fan of Kipling’s works, hence why my chosen piece is one of his more recent works. ‘ _My Boy Jack_ ’ by Rudyard Kipling.”

Thomas had heard of this particular poem but had not heard it, as such.

Supposedly it was about Kipling’s own son, Jack, who had been one of the hundreds, thousands, possibly even millions of men posted ‘ _Missing In Action’_ back in 1915.

_“Have you news of my boy Jack?”_

_Not this tide._

_“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”_

_Not with this wind blowing, and this tide._

 

_“Has any one else had word of him?”_

_Not this tide._

_For what is sunk will hardly swim,_

_Not with this wind blowing, and this tide._

 

_“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”_

_None this tide, Nor any tide,_

_Except he did not shame his kind —_

_Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide._

 

_Then hold your head up all the more,_

_This tide, And every tide;_

_Because he was the son you bore,_

_And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!”_

It took a long moment for the audience to react to the poem once it had reached its emotional ending, applauding passionately as Lieutenant Compton joined his friends over by one of the windows, the gentle giant of a man smiling embarrassedly as they thumped him on the back and offered him a rousing chorus of congratulations.

Major Palmer took to the stage next, hobbling up on his crutches to give a rousing rendition of ‘ _Good-bye-ee!’_ which was exactly what was needed to brighten to mood.

He was accompanied by Lieutenant Foley, the painfully young officer who had been playing the piano since he was a child and could often be found entertaining his fellow patients with pieces he’d learned or accompanying them in their sing-a-longs.

_“Brother Bertie went away,_

_To do his bit the other day._

_With a smile on his lips,_ _and his Lieutenant's pips,_

 _U_ _pon his shoulder bright and gay._

_As the train moved out he said, '_

_Remember me to all the birds.'_

_Then he wagged his paw, and went away to war,_

_Shouting out these pathetic words:_

 

_Goodbye-ee, goodbye-ee,_

_Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eye-ee,_

_Tho' it's hard to part I know, I'll be tickled to death to go._

_Don't cry-ee, dont sigh-ee, there's a silver lining in the sky-ee,_

_Bonsoir, old thing, cheer-i-o, chin, chin,_

_Nah-poo, toodle-oo, Goodbye-ee.”_

Thomas wasn’t the only member of the medical staff to lurch forwards in a state of panic when Major Palmer brought his crutches up off of the ground, wobbling precariously on the casts encasing both of his legs, in order to conduct the audience.

_“At the hospital at Kew,_

_The convalescents, dressed in blue._

_Had to hear Lady Lee, who had turned 83,_

_Sing all the old, old songs she knew._

_Then she made a speech and said,_

_"I look on you boys with pride,_

_And to thank you all I'm going to kiss each one",_

_Then they all grabbed a stick and cried,_

 

_Goodbye-ee, goodbye-ee, W_

_ipe the tear, baby dear, from your eye-ee,_

_Tho' it's hard to part I know,_

_I_ _'ll be tickled to death to go._

_Don't cry-ee, dont sigh-ee, there's a silver lining in the sky-ee,_

_Bonsoir, old thing, cheer-i-o, chin, chin,_

_Nah-poo, toodle-oo, Goodbye-ee.”_

Nurse Bryant took to the stage next amidst the heartfelt applause for Major Palmer, the young woman offering Lieutenant Foley a grateful smile as he began to play the introduction to her chosen piece of music. She was an excellent Nurse although her bedside manner could use a little work, in Thomas’s opinion, and had the strongest Welsh accent he’d ever heard. Listening to her give a report could put him to sleep.

It came as no surprise that she had a beautiful singing voice.

_“They were summoned from the hillside, they were called in from the glen,_

_And the country found them ready at the stirring call for men._

_Let no tears add to their hardships, as the soldiers pass along,_

_And although your heart is breaking, make it sing this cheery song:_

 

_Keep the home fires burning,_

_While your hearts are yearning,_

_Though your lads are far away they dream of home._

_There’s a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining,_

_Turn the dark cloud inside out, 'till the boys come home._

 

_Overseas there came a pleading,_

_"Help a nation in distress."_

_And we gave our glorious laddies, honour bade us do no less,_

_For no gallant son of freedom to a tyrant's yoke should bend,_

_And a noble heart must answer to the sacred call of "Friend"._

 

_Keep the home fires burning,_

_While your hearts are yearning,_

_Though your lads are far away they dream of home._

_There’s a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining,_

_Turn the dark cloud inside out 'till the boys come home.”_

Oh…

Thomas felt the blood draining out of his face as he realised that it was their turn next, that once the applause had concluded it was time for he and Sybil to perform.

“Come on,” Sybil murmured as Nurse Bryant returned to the seat she was sharing with one of her fellow Nurses, both of them squeezing into the space designed for a single occupant. Obediently he followed his friend across to the piano where there was a moment of fumbling as Lieutenant Foley move out of the way so that Sybil could perch on the stool and spread her music out on the stand. “Ready?”

No.

He wasn’t ready.

Not in the slightest.

Evidently Sybil interpreted his silence as agreement, shaking out her fingers before launching into the light introduction to the piece, offering him an encouraging smile.

He waited, hand clenched at his side in an attempt to stop it shaking, for his cue.

It came.

He took a deep breath, opened his mouth and began to sing.

_“Nights are growing very lonely,_

_Days are very long;_

_I_ _'m a-growing weary only_

_List'ning for your song._

_Old remembrances are thronging_

_Thro' my memory_

_T_ _ill it seems the world is full of dreams_

_Just to call you back to me.”_

A soft smile appeared on Edward’s face where he stood, encouraging Thomas to sing out a little more even when he reached the trickier points of the harmonies he and Sybil had worked on, their voices twining together; his a light tenor, hers a rich alto.

He wasn’t the only one smiling, most of the audience appeared to be more than pleased with their performance, but there were two special mentions; the Earl of Grantham was positively beaming with pride as he gazed at his youngest daughter and towards the back of the room where the staff had congregated Tom Branson had an altogether different smile, that of a fiancé watching the woman he loved shine.

_“There's a long, long trail a-winding Into the land of my dreams,_

_Where the nightingales are singing_

_And a white moon beams._

_There's a long, long night of waiting_

_Until my dreams all come true;_

_Till the day when I'll be going down_

_T_ _hat long, long trail with you.”_

Relaxing into the performance, his hand unclenching as he moved to lean against the side of the piano, he shared a smile with Sybil as they launched into the second verse.

_“All night long I hear you calling,_

_Calling sweet and low;_

_Seem to hear your footsteps falling,_

_Ev'ry where I go._

_Tho' the road between us stretches_

_Many a weary mile,_

_I forget that you're not with me yet_

_When I think I see you smile.”_

Edward had been forced to listen to many an awful rendition of this song over the last couple of days as Thomas had struggled to learn not only the harmonies but also the words and yet, standing in the audience of the concert, he appeared as though he were listening to the piece for the very first time. His eyes, sightless as they were, glistened with unshed tears as he took in every single word, his cheeks flushed red.

_“There's a long, long trail a-winding_

_Into the land of my dreams,_

_Where the nightingales are singing_

_And a white moon beams._

_There's a long, long night of waiting_

_Until my dreams all come true;_

_Till the day when I'll be going down_

_That long, long trail with you.”_

Sybil finished the piano accompaniment with a light flourish, lifting her hands from the keys in a truly delicate manner just as the audience burst into heartfelt applause.

A deep sigh of relief burst forth from Thomas’s lips.

It was over.

It was over and it hadn’t been a complete and utter disaster.

In fact, judging by the continued response of the audience, it had been a success.

“Hey, Sergeant Barrow,” one of the men towards the back of the room called out cheerfully. It sounded like it could have been Captain Smiley. “That’s quite the voice you’ve got there. How about you give us another song, show us what you can do?”

…another song?

“I don’t know if that would be…”

“Go on, Thomas,” Sybil encouraged him from the piano, picking up the stack of music which had been resting on top and flicking through it quickly, her nimble fingers finally selecting one of the pieces available to them. “What about this?”

He glanced down at the sheet of music, very much aware of the eyes upon them.

Sybil glanced up at him,

“Thomas?” she called out softly. “Do you know this one?”

Clearing his throat he nodded once to confirm that, yes, he knew the song she had selected before glancing out into the audience which seemed even more daunting that it had before. His eyes sought out Edward who was smiling, his sightless eyes still brimming with tears even as he nodded discretely to encourage Thomas.

“All right,” he eventually agreed out loud. “But don’t be too disappointed if it’s not as good as you’re expecting; we’ve been rehearsing that song for almost a week.”

Clearing his throat again, his nerves returning ten-fold, he nodded to Sybil to begin.

_“Jack Dunn, son of a gun, over in France today,_

_Keeps fit doing his bit up to his eyes in clay._

_Each night after a fight to pass the time along,_

_He's got a little gramophone that plays this song:_

_Take me back to dear old Blighty!_

_Put me on the train for London town!_

_Take me over there,_

_Drop me ANYWHERE,_

_Liverpool, Leeds, or Birmingham, well, I don't care!_

_I should love to see my best girl,_

_Cuddling up again we soon should be,_

_WHOA!!!_

_Tiddley iddley ighty,_

_Hurry me home to Blighty,_

_Blighty is the place for me!”_

It didn’t take much to get the audience to join in, first by clapping along to the relatively fast piece of music and then singing along when he reprised the chorus, much to the bemusement of some of the invited dignitaries and family members.

_“Bill Spry, started to fly, up in an aeroplane,_

_In France, taking a chance, wish'd he was down again._

_Poor Bill, feeling so ill, yell'd out to Pilot Brown: "_

_Steady a bit, yer fool! we're turning upside down!"_

 

_Take me back to dear old Blighty!_

_Put me on the train for London town!_

_Take me over there,_

_Drop me ANYWHERE,_

_Liverpool, Leeds, or Birmingham, well, I don't care!_

_I should love to see my best girl,_

_Cuddling up again we soon should be,_

_WHOA!!!_

_Tiddley iddley ighty,_

_Hurry me home to Blighty,_

_Blighty is the place for me!”_

Even Lord Grantham was joining in by the third verse, not singing, of course, but he was clapping along almost as enthusiastically as the rest of the audience. In fact, Thomas noticed in the brief pause between the chorus and the third verse, the only person who wasn’t at least smiling and nodding along to the piece of music was Mr Bates who seemed determined to scowl his way through the entire performance.

It continued to descended into barely controlled chaos after that.

_“Jack Lee, having his tea, says to his pal MacFayne,_

_"Look, chum, apple and plum! It's apple and plum again!_

_Same stuff, isn't it rough? Fed up with it I am!_

_Oh! for a pot of Aunt Eliza's raspb'ry jam!"_

_Take me back to dear old Blighty!_

_Put me on the train for London town!_

_Take me over there,_

_Drop me ANYWHERE,_

_Liverpool, Leeds, or Birmingham, well, I don't care!_

_I should love to see my best girl,_

_Cuddling up again we soon should be,_

_WHOA!!!_

_Tiddley iddley ighty,_

_Hurry me home to Blighty,_

_Blighty is the place for me!_

 

_One day Mickey O'Shea stood in a trench somewhere,_

_So brave, having a shave, and trying to part his hair._

_Mick yells, dodging the shells and lumps of dynamite:_

_"_ _Talk of the Cry_ _stal Palace on a Firework night!"_

 

_Take me back to dear old Blighty!_

_Put me on the train for London town!_

_Take me over there,_

_Drop me ANYWHERE,_

_Liverpool, Leeds, or Birmingham, well, I don't care!_

_I should love to see my best girl,_

_Cuddling up again we soon should be,_

_WHOA!!!_

_Tiddley iddley ighty,_

_Hurry me home to Blighty,_

_Blighty is the place for me!”_

A wild plethora of applause followed the final rendition of the chorus, mostly sung by the men in the audience given how they had drowned out Thomas’s voice. He took a bow, shaking his head in anticipation of them asking for more and hurried off of the makeshift stage, all but dragging the beaming Sybil Crawley along behind him.

“That was wonderful, Thomas!” she exclaimed happily as Captain Wilkinson took to the stage, utilising the audiences jovial mood by incorporating it into the opening of his act which was, admittedly, rather easy to do given he was telling ‘ _Humorous Tales from the Front Line and other stories’_ and had begun with a tale of a Christmas sing-a-long where they’d been pitched against the Germans in the opposite trench. The British won of course, supposedly because of the Welsh contingent. “So wonderful!”

“I am _never_ doing that again,” he vowed. “Next time you ask me to do something like that I won’t be tricked into agreeing by your puppy eyes; I shall say no, you hear me?”

Sybil’s only response was a hearty giggle.

After Captain Wilkinson had closed his act with a borderline inappropriate story about the night a very, _very_ dunk soldier had managed to sneak a couple of the local _femmes de la nuit¹_ back to his trench and had subsequently managed to conceal their presense from his superior officers with the aid of his friends for almost two weeks before they were discovered which left some members of the audience rather red in the face, he was replaced by Lieutenant Logan, Lieutenant Glover and Lieutenant Ward; three handsome men with almost identical wounds to their legs.

As had been the intention when they’d decided upon the order in which the acts would perform the merriment continued as the young men performed a rousing yet understandably messy rendition of a song that was more like a tongue twister.

“ _Sister Susie's Sewing Shirts For Soldiers,_

_Sister Susie's sewing in the kitchen on a ‘Singer’,_

_There's miles and miles of flannel on the floor,_

_And up the stairs,_

_And father says it's rotten getting mixed up with the cotton,_

_And sitting on the needles that she leaves upon the chairs._

_And should you knock at our street door,_

_Ma whispers, ‘Come inside.’_

_Then when you ask where Susie is,_

_She says with loving pride:_

 

_‘Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers,_

_Such skill at sewing shirts,_

_Our shy young sister Susie shows!_

_S_ _ome soldiers send epistles,_

_Say they'd sooner sleep in thistles,_

_T_ _han the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews._ ’”

Thomas could feel the respect for the three men growing in the room as they moved on to the second verse, faster than the first yet just as difficult in terms of the lyrics.

“ _Piles and piles and piles of shirts she sends out to the soldiers,_

_And sailors won't be jealous when they see them,_

_Not at all._

_And when we say her stitching will set all the soldiers itching,_

_She says our soldiers fight best when their back's against the wall._

_And little brother Gussie, he who lisps when he says ‘yes’,_

_Says ‘Where's the cotton gone from off my kite? Oh, I can gueth!’_

 

_Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers,_

_Such skill at sewing shirts,_

_Our shy young sister Susie shows!_

_S_ _ome soldiers send epistles,_

_Say they'd sooner sleep in thistles,_

_T_ _han the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews._ ’”

It all started to go a little bit wrong when they reached the third, even faster, verse.

Lieutenant Glover became so tongue-tied, much to the amusement of their audience that he was forced to stop and come in on the finial, ridiculously fast, rendition of the chorus whilst Lieutenant Ward got a couple of the words muddled up back to front.

Only Lieutenant Logan emerged triumphant over the lyrics at the end of the song.

“ _I forgot to tell you that our sister Susie's married,_

_And when she isn't sewing shirts_

_She's sewing other things._

_Then little sister Molly says, ‘_

_Oh, sister's bought a dolly._

_She's making all the clothes for it_

_With pretty bows and strings.’_

_Says Susie: ‘Don't be silly’_

_As she blushes and she sighs._

_Then mother smiles and whispers with a twinkle in her eyes:_

 

_Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers,_

_Such skill at sewing shirts,_

_Our shy young sister Susie shows!_

_S_ _ome soldiers send epistles,_

_Say they'd sooner sleep in thistles,_

_T_ _han the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews._ ’”

Much laughter accompanied the applause which followed their performance, light-hearted as it was, and then it was time for a miracle to occur before them; Lady Mary was going to put aside her rivalry with her sister and perform with Lady Edith.

Thomas was half expecting it to turn into a bitter screaming match.

“Most of you won't know how rare it is to see my sister Edith and I pulling together in a double act,” Mary announced as she moved along the aisle between the chairs to stand in the centre of the stage. She looked both graceful and elegant, dressed in a floral blouse and a green skirt with the belt cinched in as tightly as it could be, her hair made up beautifully. Edith, meanwhile, moved to take her place at the piano looking just as dour and frumpy as always in her brown jacket, cream blouse and brown skirt. She had tried to do something with her hair, tried to follow the popular trends, but unfortunately it didn’t really suit her particular face shape. “But in wartime we, like all of you, have more important things to worry about.”

Sybil shared a smile with Thomas,

“It seems that miracles do happen, Thomas.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mary continued. “I give you, the Crawley sisters.”

As the musical accompaniment began Thomas was struck, just as he had been the first time he’d seen it written up on the list of acts, by their choice of song. It was a love song; a song of longing, of dreaming of the one you love. And also a man’s song.

_“Sometimes when I feel bad and things look blue,_

_I wish a pal I had, say one like you,_

_Someone within my heart to build a throne,_

_Someone who'd never part to call my own.”_

Mary didn’t have the best of voices, certainly not when compared to Sybil’s, but it was still pleasant enough to listen to. It was no surprise, however, when she beckoned for the audience to join in with her once she’d reached the songs chorus.

_“If you were the only girl in the world and I were the only boy,_

_Nothing else would matter in the world today,_

_We could go on loving in the same old way._

_A garden..”_

Thomas was just as confused as everyone else when Mary suddenly trailed off, her face turning almost ashen as she gazed out across the heads of those seated in the audience. As heads began to turn the other voices began to fade out, more interested in discovering what it was that had affected her than in keeping the song going.

Soon the room was silent, everyone gazing towards the two young men who had obviously just entered the room, mud staining their boots although their uniforms appeared to have been brushed off.

Sybil gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as her parents all but launched themselves up out of their seats, the Earl of Grantham hurrying over to shake the hand of someone they had all begun to believe, albeit begrudgingly, was more likely dead than alive;

Matthew Crawley.

And the figure standing behind him was none other than William Mason.

“My dear boy,” Robert gasped, trying to contain his emotions. “My very dear boy…”

Thomas felt eyes upon him and he shifted his gaze from the current Earl and his heir, finding that it was William who was staring across at him. His one good eye met with those of the younger man and it made his heart ache to see none of the former innocence which had once shone in those cerulean orbs. Holding Thomas’ gaze the former second footman gave him a slow, deliberate nod of greeting and respect; his gaze both thankful and grateful.

It seemed, Thomas mused to himself as he returned the nod just as deliberately, that the advice he had given William before he'd left for the front had been much appreciated.

“Come on,” Matthew cried out cheerfully, drawing Thomas’ gaze back to him as the handsome young officer moved along the aisle towards Mary. “Don't stop for me...”

_“I would say such wonderful things to you.”_

Thomas doubted that no one present had been expecting him to have such a fine singing voice, the various members of the Crawley family blinking at him in shock even as Mary joined in with him once they were stood side by side. She looked unusually fragile, blinking across at him with a soft smile even as Matthew focused on getting everyone else to join in.

_“There would be such wonderful things to do,_

_If you were the only girl in the world and I were the only boy.”_

Thomas suspected that Mary and Edith had planned to finish the son there but Matthew wouldn't allow it, smiling brightly as he encouraged them all to repeat the chorus together.

_“If you were the only girl in the world,_

_And I were the only boy,_

_Nothing else would matter in the would today,_

_We could go on loving in the same old way._

_A garden of Eden, just made for two,_

_With nothing to mar our joy._

_I would say such wonderful things to you,_

_There would be such wonderful things to do._

_If you were the only girl in the world,_

_And I were the only boy.”_

Thomas also suspected that the only reason that they hadn't been treated to some of the “alternative lyrics” which he knew to be quite popular with men of all ranks was because of the emotional reunion which had taken place. Otherwise he suspected that they'd probably have been treated to a boisterous rendition of _“If you were the only Boche in the trench.”_

After the applause had finally died down the concert continued, five more brave souls taking to the stage to perform their chosen songs or, in the case of Colonel Grant who had been chosen to close the show, recite a Shakespearean soliloquy completely from memory.

Dinner that evening, at least for the patients, was a boisterous affair as the merriment brought about by the concert continued. There was more singing, hands tapping out the rhythm on the wooden tables, but thankfully the family didn't seem to mind; they were too focused on Matthew and his “miraculous return” to be annoyed by the unusual noise level.

Sybil, despite technically still being on duty, was excused to go and speak with her family.

No one minded covering for her given the circumstances.

After dinner was finished they got the patients settled, Thomas ensuring sure that he was the one responsible for taking Edward back to his bed and making sure he was settled.

“If I can get away after I've had my dinner I'll come get you,” he murmured into his lover’s ear as he plumped up Edward's pillows, leaning in a fraction closer than necessary so that he could do so. “I've hardly seen you and I find myself in need of your attention…your touch…”

“Yes, please, Thomas,” Edward murmured, his breath coming out slightly shaky as his sightless eyes searched out those of his lover. “We haven't been properly alone in days…”

They both knew what he meant by _properly alone…_

What Thomas had meant about being in need of his touch…

Thomas pulled back, allowing his hand to trail across Edwards’s cheek as though by accident.

“If you need anything let me know, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Barrow.”

Finishing up his rounds he slipped through the hidden door which led to the servants staircase, moving around Anna and Mr Bates who were having a conversation on the landing without sparing them much more than a glance, eager to get something to eat.

“Who would've thought an amateur concert could be the summit of all joy?” Bates’ voice followed him as he made his way down the stairs even though it was meant to be private. “I've lived in such a fog of misery since I left you. I think I'd forgotten what happiness is.”

“Me too,” Anna responded. “But now we must get used to feeling happy, and trust it.”

“Love's young dream,” Miss O’Brien muttered from where she'd been standing strong the foot of the stairs, watching Thomas descend and blatantly eavesdropping. “I don't think.”

Thomas sighed, tired of his old friends continued determination to always stir things up,

“I'm not sure I care much.”

“You going soft in your old age?” she snorted in response. “This is unexpected.”

“I don't like him because he's a patronising bastard who sneaks around behind my back,” Thomas announced as he slipped around her, heading for the servants hall from which the delicious smell of some sort of stew was emanating. “I've got other things to worry about.”

“Really?” O’Brien hummed thoughtfully. “That's interesting.”

“Why?”

She smirked across at him, not moving an inch as she answered simply,

“Because obviously I hold a grudge longer than you.”

Entering the servant’s hall he found William stood, twisting his battered looking cap in his hands as he watched Mrs Patmore and Daisy laying out the food for the medical staff. 

“I knew nothing bad had happened,” Mrs Patmore announced as Thomas slipped into one of the empty chairs beside Staff Nurse Rawlings who instantly reached out to procure a clean plate for him from the stack in the centre of the table. He murmured his sincere thanks, the stack of plates having been too far away for him to reach with his good hand, and motioned for her to help herself to the stew and dumplings. “I felt it in me waters.”

“What about you?” William enquired, addressing Daisy who was pouring out several cups of tea which were then passed around the table. “Did you have me boxed up and buried?”

“I'm glad you're all right,” Daisy responded with a shy smile, squeezing out the last drop of tea from the pot and handing William the cup she had just managed to fill. “Honest.”

“You should be,” the young soldier responded in that earnest way of his which had used to get on Thomas' nerves once upon a time. “It's the thought of you that keeps me going.”

“So, what did happen?” Daisy enquired, holding the empty yet still pleasantly warm teapot against her stomach even as Mrs Patmore returned to the kitchen. “Why were you late?”

“We were sent out on a scouting mission,” William answered without hesitation, seemingly unaware that the entire nursing staff were listening in as they delved into their dinner, Thomas included. “And somehow we managed to get completely lost. Ended up trapped behind a German scouting party for three days, if you can believe it, and then when we finally got away we stumbled into a field dressing station and no matter how much we argued they wouldn't let us return to our unit. We weren't even that badly injured; in fact me and the Captain weren't injured at all and the man that was, Frasier, had only broken his wrist. And they didn't even inform our unit which is how we ended up posted missing.”

Thomas snorted.

“Sounds about right,” he muttered, cutting the first of his dumplings in half and then in half again with the edge of his fork so as to create bite size pieces. “Some of the people running things over there couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery if their lives depended on it...”

“Thomas!” Daisy gasped, scandalised, even as William chuckled. “How can you…?”

“Sounds about right, Sergeant Barrow,” he interrupted her gently, moving across to place his empty cup down on the table and offer his hand to Thomas. “I was hoping I'd see you at some point. I wanted to thank you for the advice you gave me when I was last here.”

Thomas smiled, placing his fork down on the edge of his plate so that he could twist in his seat and accept the hand being offered to him, shaking it firmly. He could feel the familiar calluses caused by a life in service on the otherwise soft skin, only one feeling out of place; no doubt caused by the military lifestyle he now led. It had probably come from his rifle.

“I can see you listened to it,” he murmured, nodding to Williams cap and the state of his buttons. They were clean, yes, but they certainly weren't shining. “How's your slumping?”

“Better now,” William chuckled. “Painful at first after so long spent standing properly.”

“Bet it's saved your life, though.”

“It has, Sergeant Barrow,” William murmured seriously. “It has indeed.”

Thomas finished his stew, washing it down with a couple of cups of tea courtesy of the ever helpful Daisy, polished off a rather large helping of spotted dick and then returned upstairs under the pretence of performing a final set of rounds before retiring for the evening. No one, not even Staff Nurse Rawlings who was due to cover the first half of the night shift, questioned him, settling into her own duties happily as he wandered around the wards.

“Let me get that for you, Major,” Thomas insisted clearly, reaching down to retrieve the newspaper on the floor which the bedridden officer had been reaching for. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Sergeant Barrow?” Edward called out, having perked up at the sound of his lover’s voice. Thomas made his way across to his bed, moving neither too quickly or too slowly. “I'm sorry but could you possibly lead me to the bathroom? I'm too tired to navigate my own way there.”

“Of course, Lieutenant Courtenay,” Thomas responded, pulling the bedsheets out of the way so that Edward could get to his feet. It was the perfect excuse for them to disappear off together for a little bit; no one would suspect a thing as the nurses and orderlies regularly had to lead the visually impaired patients to the bathroom during the night. “If you'll just take my arm?”

He offered his good arm to his lover, nodding his head in a suitably clinical way when Edward slipped his own arm through it, hand coming to rest on the inside of Thomas' forearm, and then carefully led him out of the ward. Nurse Rawlings offered him a thankful smile from where she was brushing crumbs from a thoroughly chastised young officer’s bed; he'd been caught sneaking sweet treats that his mother had sent him on multiple occasions.

Thomas led Edward out into the entrance hall, struggling to keep the smile from his face as Edward’s thumb stroked across the delicate skin on the inside of his elbow through his uniform, and then through to the main hall. As far as facilities for the patients were concerned, at least for those who could get around by themselves, they’d been using the bathrooms attached to the guest bedrooms on the first floor.

It was to the nearest of these bathrooms that Thomas was headed towards.

Opening the door he pulled the cord to switch on the light, guiding Edward inside the small room at the same time before pausing to check that the coast was clear so that he could follow him. Edward had paused in the centre of the small room, shifting his bare feet on the cool black and white tiles covering the floor, tilting his head to one side as he listened to Thomas quietly shutting and locking the door behind them.

“Thomas…” Edward gasped, his voice heavy with desire. “I need…I need…”

Turning to face the kind-hearted young man who had captured his once ice-cold heart Thomas felt his mouth begin to water as he took in the sight before him; Edward’s cheeks were flushed with desire, his hands fluttering nervously at his sides.

“Edward…” he groaned, reaching out to stroke the back of his fingers down his lover’s cheek, resting his prosthetic limb on Edward’s shoulder. “What do you need?”

“I need… _you_ …” Edward responded, sucking on his top lip. “I need _your m-mouth_ …”

They had been becoming _more adventurous_ in their encounters, going further each time, taking more risks, although they had yet to truly make love to one another; that special moment would be reserved for a time when they could be completely alone.

And they had discovered that Edward really, _really_ liked it when Thomas used his mouth on him, something that none of his previous lovers at public school had done.

Thomas smirked.

Wasn’t it fortuitous that Edward had fallen in love with an act he so love performing?

Using his hands he guided Edward to turn his body and lean back against the tall walnut drawer unit, causing it to rock ever so slightly on its eight legs even as he dropped down to kneel before his lover, his good hand moving to the drawstring of his simple pyjama bottoms. The knot gave way easily allowing him to pull them down, the fabric pooling around Edward’s knees and revealing his lack of underwear.

“Thomas…”

It was a struggle for Edward to stay quiet, eventually biting down on the sleeve of his pyjama top in order to muffle to sounds he couldn’t control as Thomas proved once against that his mouth was truly sinful in every possible way, driving him mad with pleasure. However even with his mouth covered he couldn’t control the noise that burst its way out of his chest when he finally reached his moment of pleasure, his free hand grabbing hold of Thomas’s soft hair without meaning to and pulling tight.

“Oh…” he all but whimpered, chest heaving as he leant his head back against the drawer unit, his heart pounding in his chest. “Thomas…thank you…thank you…”

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand Thomas rose to his feet, wincing as his knees protested the time spent on the cold black and white tiles, and pressed a gentle kiss to Edward’s lips. He wasn’t surprised that his lovers hand stayed in his hair; no longer pulling so tightly his scalp hurt but certainly holding on for good measure.

He also wasn’t all that surprised when Edward deepened the kiss, heedless of whatever taste had been left behind in his mouth, and began to work its way up underneath the front of his tunic, his dextrous fingers working on the buttons of his trousers until he was able to slip his hand inside, seeking out Thomas’ erection.

“Edward…” Thomas grunted against his lovers lips. “… _please_ …”

And then it was his turn to muffle his exclamations of pleasure, Edward helping by offering his lips up for as many kisses as Thomas wanted. It worked, the intimacy of the act only heightening the pleasure he felt as his lover brought him to completion.

“I love you.”

Edward’s smile was enchanting, lighting up his entire face.

“I love you too.”

~ * ~

 **A/N** Sorry it’s been so long; lots of things going on in real life as well as far too many stories on the go, all of which are fighting for my attention. Hope you enjoyed the update. All of the songs used are of the period and most of them can be found in the wonderful movie/musical ‘ _Oh, What A Lovely War!_ ’ and as such I don’t own any of them. Comments & Suggestions welcome. X

¹ - women of the night


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen; England, 1918**

Thomas was helping Major Alperton, a congenial young man who had suffered a traumatic amputation of his left arm at the shoulder joint during the _Battle of Delville Wood_ back in 1916, into the car which would finally be taking him home after his long time spent recovering from his life-changing injury when she caught sight of the young boy making his way along the gravel driveway on his pushbike.

He wore the distinctive uniform of a ‘General Post Office’ telegram messenger, the sunlight glinting off of the polished buttons of his tight-fitting single breasted jacket and the gilt badge above the peak of his kepi style cap, and he wore an expression of grim determination on his painfully young face. It was this jaded expression which caused Thomas to pause, remaining in place after the car had pulled away rather than heading back inside as he should have done; it was an unfortunate fact of life in these troubled times that a telegram was more likely to bring bad news than good.

“Telegram for the Earl of Grantham,” the boy panted, out of breath from pedalling so hard, as he reached into the pouch attached the military style belt he wore to retrieve the simple envelope. Thomas noticed a small mark on one of the envelopes corners as he automatically reached out to accept the delivery. “Will there be a reply?”

“…I suppose it depends on the news this contains,” Thomas murmured, idly tapping the crisp edge of the telegram against his prosthetic hand. “Best wait, just in case.”

The boy, grimacing in understanding, nodded.

“I'm sure if you go round to the servants entrants someone will bring you something to drink,” Thomas murmured, his words bringing forth a grateful smile from the boy. It must be a terrible burden, he conceded, to forever be delivering bad news to people. He imagined that some people reacted badly. “I'll come find you there.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Thomas didn't have it in him to correct the boy that he was neither an officer nor a member of the nobility; instead he merely nodded to the boy whilst motioning which way he needed to go. Once alone Thomas headed inside, carefully shutting the front door behind him and looking around for Mr Carson who should be the one to deliver the potentially important telegram. Unfortunately there was no sign of the butler but there, descending the staircase with his wife, was the Earl of Grantham, the recipient.

“Your Lordship?” Thomas called out, somewhat reluctantly. “A telegram for you.”

Lady Cora sucked in a sharp breath, freezing in place on the steps even as her husband moved forwards to accept the envelope from his former employee, his face a carefully sculpted mask of indifference. His hands, however, were shaking as he forced open the envelope then and there rather than retreating to his library for his silver letter opener.

The small sheet of yellow paper was pulled out and unfolded, Thomas watching silently as the older man's eyes scanned the words printed upon the thin sheet of paper as quickly as he could. It was clear when he reached whatever ill news the telegram had brought for he let out a deep, shuddering breath, his stiff shoulders dropping from their normal position.

“…Robert?”

“Matthew has been wounded in battle.”

Lady Cora wasn't the only one to gasp on response to the news, Thomas himself letting out a sharp intake of breath as his mind _helpfully_ supplied him with an array of possible injuries.

“Mrs Crawley received notification this morning,” the Earl of Grantham continued, his voice trembling as he struggled to contain his own emotions. His wife, an American and therefore not in possession of the utterly British ‘ _stiff-upper-lip-in-the-face-of-a-crisis_ ’, made no such attempt as she rushed to his side, clutching hold of his arm as she read the telegram for herself. “He's been in a field hospital for a couple of weeks and is now being sent to York.”

“It doesn't say how badly he's been wounded…”

No, Thomas thought to himself, it wouldn't.

There were simply too many variables, too many types of wounds. Not to mention the fact that a soldiers wound could change between the telegram being sent and the patient arriving home. Infection, for example, could transform a bullet wound into a missing limb.

“We must take comfort in the fact that he has been wounded rather than…”

“Yes,” Lady Cora interrupted her husband as his voice wavered. “Of course.”

“Where's Mary? She must be told…”

“Excuse me, Your Lordship?” Thomas called out softly, halting them before they could head off in search of their eldest daughter. “Does Mrs Crawley say anything about William?”

William, as Captain Crawleys batman, would have been at his side when he was wounded meaning that there was a pretty good chance that the former footman had suffered as well.

“No, I'm afraid not,” the Earl of Grantham responded gravely, frowning as he thought about the loyal young man. He, just like everyone else, had always preferred William over Thomas when they had worked alongside one another. Not that Thomas could really blame any of them, his former employer included, given what an… _unpleasant_ …person he had been back then. “I suppose his father will have been the one to receive any relevant notifications…”

Thomas nodded.

It didn't surprise him that there was nothing in the telegram about William, given that the notifications would indeed go to the younger man's father, but he also knew that Mrs Crawley was well known for her resourcefulness and determination; if there was anyone who might have been able to find out what the circumstances surrounding her sons injury were, information which would no doubt have included word of his batman, then it was her.

“Thomas?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship?”

“Would you mind keeping this to yourself for a moment?” Lady Cora requested, her voice a little more unsteady than usual. “Robert and I would like to inform everyone ourselves.”

“Of course, Your Ladyship,” Thomas murmured, understanding why she'd felt the need to make such a thing clear to him. Some servants, himself included, would have been itching to share such information with their peers. Of course, that was before he'd been so changed by the war. “I was unsure as to whether there would be a response to the telegram boy is down in the servants hall getting a cup of tea. Would you like me to send him on his way?”

“I think it best I reply straight away,” the Earl of Grantham responded, moving across to the upstairs telephone where a small pad of paper sat, a pencil resting on top of it. Using this he quickly scribbled a reply, jotting down the return address Mrs Crawley had given, which was then handed over to Thomas who accepted it without protest. “Could you please make sure this is sent as quickly as possible? Carson can deal with the charge, whatever it might be.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

After checking that there was nothing that required his attention in either of the wards Thomas headed down to the basement level of the grand building in search of the boy who had brought the original telegram. He found him, unsurprisingly, surrounded by various members of the household staff as he sat eating what remained of a sandwich with a glass of milk resting half-empty on the table before him. An empty teacup was just being collected by a somewhat nervous looking Daisy when he stepped into the crowded room.

“Mr Carson?” Thomas called out, inadvertently interrupting what appeared to be a rather in-depth conversation with Mrs Hughes over by the fireplace. “His Lordship is sending a reply and wished for me to request that you deal with whatever payment is required.”

He held up the folded sheet of paper as confirmation of his statement.

Mr Carson grunted in response, unable to find anything to grumble about in his manner or the words he had carefully chosen. Without prompting the boy stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, washing it down with the last of his milk, and rose to his feet.

“You know what was in the telegram,” Miss O’Brien deduced correctly as Mr Carson dealt with the monetary charge whilst Thomas carefully placed the sheet of paper in the small envelope the boy had produced from his pouch. “Feel like sharing with the rest of us?”

“No,” Thomas countered shortly, handing the envelope to the boy who tucked it carefully inside his pouch, pointedly making sure to place it at the back. Understandably he didn't want to muddle it up with one still to be delivered. Miss O’Brien glared across at him and she wasn't alone. “Look, it's not my news to share. You'll all be told when the time is right.”

Mrs Hughes smiled across at him.

“Quite right, Thomas.”

“I'll see you out,” he murmured to the boy once Mr Carson had handed over the coins which had also been stored within the pouch in a small compartment designed for that very purpose. He wanted to ask the boy if he'd delivered anything to Mr Mason but didn't want to do so in front of everyone else, given the conclusions they would jump to. “Come on.”

“Um, thanks you for the sandwich and the tea,” the boy murmured, smiling at Daisy in particular. “And the milk. It was delicious. All of it was delicious. Um, yeah, thank you...”

Thomas wasn't the only one fighting a smile as he led the boy out of the servants hall, along the empty corridor and out into the enclosed courtyard; the last time he'd seen someone so obviously suffering from a case of nerves brought on by feelings of a romantic nature it had been William himself, the person he found himself worried about, whilst talking to Daisy.

“Hey,” he called out to the flushed boy. “Have you delivered anything to a Mr Mason?”

“Out at Pitch Brook Farm? On the Darnley estate?”

Thomas nodded, his stomach clenching as the boy recognised who he was talking about.

That could only mean one thing...

“I delivered one there yesterday,” the boy answered softly, his expression haunted. “Why?”

“I don't suppose you know what it contained?”

Reluctantly the boy nodded.

“It was an official notification,” he explained softly, one hand taking hold of his bicycles handlebars whilst the other grabbed the seat, allowing him to pull it away from the wall it had been resting against, turning it around with practised ease. “His sons been wounded.”

“Wounded? Not killed?”

“No, not killed; I can tell the difference now even if they don't say anything but Mr Mason started muttering about where he was going to find the money he'd need to get to York…”

Thomas nodded in understanding.

“…I hate this job,” the boy admitted tearfully, biting his lip. “I had a woman hit me with a rolling pin yesterday, just because I brought her a telegram about her husband. Killed.”

“What's your name?”

“Jamie,” the messenger boy responded, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “Jamie Ross.”

“Well, Jamie, I wish there was something I could tell you to comfort you but I can't,” Thomas sighed, his words sincere as the boy gazed tearfully across at him. “It's an awful job, what you're doing, but it's an important job. People would rather know, even if their initial reactions make it seem otherwise, than live with not knowing. You bring pain, yes, but you also bring comfort. Closure. I'm sorry she hit you and I'm sure she's sorry she hit you, too.”

“…that's what my mum says,” Jamie admitted, wiping at his eyes once more as a couple of tears escaped. Thomas offered him a kind smile. “My dads…my dads been missing since 1915 and she told me that it would have hurt he less if the telegram had said he'd been killed. Because she can't move on, can't grieve, because she doesn't know what happened.”

Thomas nodded as Jamie drew in a shuddering breath.

“Knowing all that doesn't make this any easier, though.”

“I know,” Thomas murmured. “Trust me, I know.”

Sharing a shaky smile with the former footman the messenger boy mounted his bicycle and, with a murmur of farewell, headed off to deliver his next telegram. Thomas watched him go, smoking the last of his precious cigarettes. He'd need to pinch another pack from the large crate which had been sent anonymously to the hospital, intended for use by the patients.

He wasn't the only one of the medical staff helping himself, however, but given that half of the time he was sharing his cigarettes with the men he was caring for it only seemed fair.

Returning to his duties he knew the moment that the news had been shared with the servants for Anna appeared looking almost distraught as she hurried up to Lady Mary's bedroom where the eldest Crawley daughter had secluded herself since being informed.

If he spent more time with Edward on his afternoon walk, taking comfort in the arms of his lover in their favourite secluded spot in the vast gardens, then who could blame him?

“I'm sorry for him. I am,” Thomas murmured almost a week later as he sat down to enjoy his rather late lunch. Miss O’Brien looked up from her mending, one thick eyebrow arched questioningly at him. “I don't mind Captain Crawley. He's a better man than most of them.”

Miss O’Brien sighed deeply.

“And William, too,” she murmured, laying her mending down. “He's not a bad lad.”

They had finally received confirmation through Mr Mason seeking out the family in York that William had indeed been gravely wounded during the same attack that Captain Crawley had received his own injuries. The news, along with that of Captain Crawley’s uncertain condition, had brought an abrupt end to Thomas’ hopes that their injuries had been minor.

“I wish I'd not written that letter to Bates's wife telling her he's back here.”

Thomas frowned.

“What's that got to do with it?”

“With everything else going on,” Miss O’Brien muttered, automatically leaning over to hold Thomas’ plate steady for him as he cut up his sandwich into more manageable sized pieces for someone with only one working hand. “I know she'll come up here and make trouble.”

Daisy entered, her face even more drawn than usual as she placed another plate of sandwiches down in front of one of the nurses also snatching a late lunch with Thomas.

“Any news?”

Daisy sighed, leaning on the back of an empty chair as she answered Miss O'Brien,

“Only that the doctor won't let William come to the village.”

Something akin to a lead weight settled unpleasantly in his stomach, removing his appetite in an instant as his mind focused on the seemingly ridiculous statement he’d just heard.

“He never…”

“It's for officers only,” Daisy explained, biting her lip. “So he says.”

Yes, it was intended for Officers use only but _surely_ an exception could be made?

“His poor father's staying there with him,” Mrs Patmore joined in with the conversation as she brought in a steaming teapot, placing it down in the centre of the table for people to help themselves. No one did. “Spending money he's not got, and travelling miles to do it.”

Daisy huffed softly,

“It's not right…”

“No,” Thomas agreed with her, pushing his plate away. “It bloody well isn't.”

He could practically feel the surprised looks everyone was shooting his way.

“Well, I'm a working-class lad and so is he,” Thomas explained as best as he could, rising from his seat and turning to face the two talented women who were always so busy in the kitchen. Daisy looked stunned. “And I get fed up seeing how our lot always gets shafted.”

He had planned on speaking to Major Clarkson the following day, spending his evening attempting to come up with the best phrases to use in order to convince the by-the-book officer to bend the rules just this once, but in the end his interference wasn't needed.

“Sergeant Barrow!”

Thomas looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading to a group of men suffering from gas-blindness, finding himself facing a rather irate looking Major Clarkson and an incredibly smug looking Dowager Countess. He frowned, handing the newspaper over to when of the other patients ego had lost a limb instead of his sight, and made his way over to the pair.

“Please prepare one of the rooms upstairs for a mortally wounded patient.”

“…mortally wounded?”

“It is the Doctors opinion that William shall not survive his injuries,” the Dowager Countess murmured stiffly, gripping the ornate handle of her cane tightly. “I, however, have always believed that it is better to have hope. Every effort will be made to help him, understood?”

“…Williams coming here?” Thomas uttered, stunned. “To Downton? But I thought…”

“The Dowager Countess has friends in high places,” Major Clarkson muttered, only his good manners stopping him from sneering at the woman in question as he spoke. No, Thomas surmised, he was not happy that the influential woman had decided to go over his head to get her own way. “Please, prepare the room. _Private_ Mason will be arriving this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Muttering under his breath about ‘ _damned interfering women_ ’, his voice just loud enough to be heard by those closest to him, Major Clarkson turned and stormed out of the building, heading out to his car which was sat on the gravel driveway beside the families own car. Thomas caught sight of Branson, obviously waiting to take the Dowager Countess home.

“Your Ladyship?” Thomas called out when the Dowager Countess, tutting to herself, moved as if to follow. She paused, arching an eyebrow in his direction. “Thank you. For William.”

For a long moment she merely studied him and he got the distinct feeling that she was attempting to figure out if he was bring sincere or not. Eventually she offered him a single nod, her expression blank apart from her eyes which were heavy with emotion. This time when she turned to leave he let her, turning to stair at the grand staircase for a long moment as his mind sorted through which of the rooms available would best suit Williams apparent needs before setting off in search of the supplies he would need. In the end he enlisted Sybil's help to get the room, one of the smaller guest rooms which wasn't used very often by guests of the family due to its location near the servant’s stairs and its size, set up.

“Thomas!” Sybil cried out midway through the afternoon, her arms laden down with a large bowl of soiled dressings she had just changed. She nodded towards the door. “He's here.”

Excusing him from the discussion he'd been having with Captain Spencer about when he would be allowed to get out of bed, reassuring the anxious young man that he would be up and walking as soon as Major Clarkson deemed his wounds healed enough, he emerged from the house just as the two unfamiliar orderlies climbed down from the back of the military ambulance carefully manoeuvring the stretcher holding William between them.

It pained Thomas to see the young man so still and pale, looking as though he were mere moments away from shuffling off his mortal coil. William, as with any patients transferred from a military hospital, was clad in the distinctive hospital blues which only made his ashen pallor appear worse. His skin, particularly around his neck, was covered in cuts and marks.

“Right. Where to?” the orderly carrying the end of the stretcher which held Williams feet enquired, his thick Devonshire accent taking Thomas by surprise for a moment. “Sarge?”

“Follow me.”

Thomas was aware of the eyes that followed him, or more specifically the patient under his care, as he led the two orderlies up the grand staircase. Several of the servants had appeared out of the woodwork in order to catch a glimpse of William and even Lady Edith had appeared, standing with an armful of books and an expression of sympathy of her face.

Arriving at the guest room he turned down the stark white sheets he and Sybil had placed on the four-poster-bed, stepping aside to allow the orderlies to transfer William from the stretcher to the bed. Thankfully their patient remained unconscious throughout this manoeuvre, the younger of the two orderlies obviously not used to lifting patients yet.

“I can take it from here, gentlemen,” Thomas informed them as he tucked the sheets around the body now reclining against the plump white pillows. “Ask one of the nurses to fetch you a cup of tea before you head back to Leeds. I'm sure you're both in need of one.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

Handing over the folded sheet of paper which had been sticking out of the his pocket the older of the two orderlies hurried out of the room, his younger companion following him.

It turned out to be William’s information, a mark of the page confirming that it had once been hung on a clipboard, probably from the end of his bed. His personal information was no surprise to Thomas, name, date of birth and all that. His medical information came as something of a shock; _significant shrapnel damage to the patients upper body, lungs, spleen and stomach severely damaged._ The prognosis was painful yet unsurprising; _patient has suffered fatal wounds and should be made as comfortable as possible to ease his passing._

The Dowager Countess may have spoken of hope earlier but Thomas couldn't seem to muster any as he stood gazing down at the young man he had been so jealous of once upon a time.

He could see the truth of the prognosis in the pallor of Williams skin, could hear how the damage caused to his longs was restricting his breathing, causing him to wheeze painfully.

William was a statistic waiting to happen, a name on a wooden cross ready to be carved.

He was dead even though he was still breathing.

And it made Thomas feel sick.

“I'm sorry, William,” he murmured sincerely as he placed the piece of paper down on the bedside table beside the jug of water and empty glass they'd prepared for him. “So sorry.”

William gave no sign that he'd heard him.

Exiting the room, shutting the door quietly behind him so as not to disturb the sleeping patient, he couldn't help but wonder why things had happened the way they had.

Why, given the injuries he had suffered, had he been spared?

He was a liar and a thief, a selfish soul who for years had thought of no one but himself.

Why had he survived?

And why was William, innocent, kind, good, William being forced to suffer?

Why, if he couldn't be spared, couldn't his end have come quickly?

A bullet.

A broken neck.

Why was someone so deserving of kindness being shown none?

It wasn't…

It wasn't _fair_ …

“…fuck…” he cursed softly, wiping the tears from his stinging eyes as he turned and headed towards the servants staircase. “…I need a cigarette…and then…and then I need a hug…”

He needed Edward to help him make sense of it all, to bring order to the chaos of his mind and reassure him that he had been spared for a reason. To confirm that he had been changed by his experiences, that he was no longer such a foul, loathe some creature as he remembered. To help him to see that he was doing everything he could to deserve the second chance he'd been given, that he wasn't wasting a single moment of his new life.

A voice startled him just as he slipped through the hidden door,

“What's up with you?”

Of course it had to Miss O'Brien that he bumped into when he was feeling so out of sorts.

“I've just settled William in.”

“It's bad, then?”

He nodded, not wanting to risk his emotions getting the best of him should he try to speak.

Miss O'Brien sighed sadly.

“Mrs Bates came earlier whilst you were busy upstairs,” she announced, the change in subject taking him by surprise. His old confidante looked less than pleased about the news she was sharing with him. “Caused a heck of a stink to, demanding to see her husband.”

He sighed deeply, rolling his good eye towards the older woman as he muttered,

“You should never have told her Bates was here.”

“Don't I know it,” Miss O'Brien muttered, attempting to display herself as a victim of the situation. Thomas had seen her perform this act countless times before, with the wide eyes, trembling voice and subservient air, and knew better than to fall for it like Lady Cora had always seemed to. “And she was even worse after she'd seen him than before, ranting on about a scandal that would bring the roof down on the house of Grantham. Silly mare.”

 _Scandal_?

“What scandal?”

“I thought she'd just come up and take a bite out of Bates,” Miss O'Brien sighed, annoyed. Evidently she wasn't willing to share the details of the scandal with Thomas, probably because she was waiting for the perfect time to use the information. Either that or she didn't actually know what scandal Mrs Bates had been talking about which could also be another source of her annoyance given her love of gossip. “That's what it sounded like.”

“Then you should've asked more questions,” Thomas snapped, not in the mood to pander to her. She flinched with a surprised gasp and Thomas took the opportunity to slip past her and head down the narrow, winding stairs. “You know what they say, the devil is in the detail.”

After a moments pause Miss O'Brien followed him, announcing unhappily,

“I'm not standing by while she brings misery and ruin on my lady.”

Thomas snorted, sounding more like his old self as he pointed out,

“You started it.”

“Oh, yes, you're very important, aren't you?” she snapped somewhat bitterly, giving up on her act as she glared down at him. “Very know-it-all with all of us at your beck and call.”

“I'm sorry if you're angry, but don't take it out on me,” Thomas responded calmly as he reached the bottom of the stares, turning to watching her final descent. “You did it.”

Leaving her spluttering at the bottom of the stairs he headed out into the servants courtyard and proceeded to smoke almost half a pack of cigarettes as his mind tortured him with comparisons between him and William and scenarios of their places being swapped.

He didn't need his subconscious to tell him that everyone would have preferred William to return to them instead of him. He also didn't need his subconscious to plant that suspicion that, had he been the one fatally wounded and sent to Leeds no one would have fought to bring him to Downton so that he could die in peace, surrounded by people who loved him.

His heart clenched painfully within his chest.

“… _fuck_ …”

Edward.

He needed Edward.

Throwing away the remainder of his cigarette he stumbled around the outside of the house, heading towards the lawn where the patients were permitted to take the sun. He caught sight of Edward almost immediately, sitting with a group who liked to read almost as much as he did. They seemed to be having a deep discussion and, were Thomas to take a guess, the subject would be a book which they had all read.

“I’m sorry to bother you, gentlemen,” Thomas murmured politely, his mind racing as he struggled to come up with a way to get his love alone. “But Lieutenant Courtenay? You requested to go for a walk this afternoon. Would you prefer I come back later?”

“No, Sergeant Barrow, I’m afraid I got carried away with our discussion,” Edward responded, a slight frown gracing his features as he picked up on the unusual tension in Thomas’ voice. “My apologies, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I must leave you to it.”

He received murmurs of understanding from his fellow book lovers as he extended his arm towards Thomas, allowing him to assist him out of his seat and lead the way to their favourite private nook in the gardens. Thomas managed to keep his composure until he was certain that they were alone at which point he turned and buried his face in Edward shoulder, clinging to his lover’s jacket with his good hand.

“Thomas?” Edward gasped, surprised by the other man’s behaviour. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you…can you just hold me for a minute? Please?” Thomas requested, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I promise I’ll explain but…please…just hold me…please…”

And so Edward held him, his arms tightening around him as he murmured words of reassurance in his ear, one hand moving up to stroke the hair at the base of Thomas’ skull. Eventually Thomas was able to explain, his voice still unusually soft, what had upset him so, resting his head on Edward’s shoulder as he talked of William’s arrival, the terminal nature of his injuries and the thoughts which had been swirling through his head. Edward had been both sympathetic and outraged, arguing that whilst it was indeed a sad turn of events Thomas shouldn’t feel at all guilty about the situation.

“Fate is a cruel mistress,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his lover’s temple. “We cannot control who lives and who dies in this damnable war. Such things are in the hands of God, not us mere mortals. Grieve for William as we have grieved for those we have lost before him but never, _ever_ apologise for being the one to survive.”

~ * ~

“Why were we never friends, Thomas?”

Looking up from the blanket he had just finished tucking into the bottom of the bed, effectively pinning the wounded young man's feet to the mattress in an effort to give them a little bit more warmth that the bed sheet and plush comforter had already been offering, Thomas met Williams puzzled gaze. It had been almost a week since the younger man had arrived at the hospital and with every new day he seemed to fade just that little bit more.

“Because I envied you,” Thomas answered honestly, dropping down into the chair which had been placed at the side of the bed so that William wouldn’t have to strain his neck looking up at him as they talked. William frowned, confused by his answer. “I envied your happy childhood. I envied the fact that your mother loved you. I still envy the fact that your father was willing to stop everything and travel to Leeds just to be with you when you needed him. I envied your happiness, your kindness, your joy. I envied the way people liked you. I envied the fact that you'd be able to get married to someone you loved one day. I…”

“I understand,” William cut him off, his voice soft but firm. “You never said anything.”

“What was there to say?” Thomas chuckled sadly, fiddling with his prosthetic for a Kent before giving in and starting to undo the straps. He'd caught his stump on the edge of his dresser the evening before, a deep bruise forming almost immediately, and his prosthetic had been pressing down on it all day. It was time for a break. “I'm sorry I was so horrible to you for so long. I thought it would make me feel better about myself, about my miserable life, if I made you as miserable as I was. I was wrong, of course, but that was before…”

“…before?”

Thomas hesitated.

“Thomas, it's not like I'm going to be around long enough to tell everyone whatever it is you're reluctant to share with me,” William chuckled sadly, his eyes flickering back and forth from Thomas’ scarred face to the stump he was absentmindedly massaging. “Before…?”

“Before so many things,” Thomas exhaled deeply in response, the words tumbling out. “Before the war. Before I lost my hand and my sight and became some soft of gargoyle.”

“You're not a gargoyle, Thomas…”

“Before I met Edward,” Thomas continued, his tone softening as he thought of the young man who had been suffering with a cold for the past couple of days. “Before I fell in love.”

Silence descended upon the pair for a long moment following his final statement.

“Love does have a way of changing us, doesn't it?” William eventually sighed, his hands fluttering weakly on his chest. “I'm glad you've found someone. Is he…is he here, or…”

“He's one of the patients,” Thomas admitted, not even attempting to hide the smile which filtered onto his previously serious face as he thought of Edward. “We met at the hospital, before the convalescent home was opened. In fact, he's the reason we're here at all…”

William frowned quizzically.

“Edward was brought in suffering from an acute case of gas blindness. Eventually, after weeks without improvement, we were forced to accept that the damage is permanent,” Thomas explained softly, pulling his sleeve back down to hide his stump. The massage had certainly helped but removing the prosthetic had definitely been the best thing for it. “He was coping well, learning to adapt with the help of myself and Nurse Crawley, but it all went a bit pear shaped when Major Clarkson deemed him well enough to be transferred away.”

“What happened?”

“He stole a scalpel, or was it a razor…I can't remember…anyway he stole a blade and slit his wrists in the middle of the night,” Thomas pressed the difficult words out, fiddling with the straps of the prosthetic limb now resting in his lap. “I haven't believe in God since I realised how _different_ I was but something was definitely guiding me that night. I found him before it was too late and we were able to stop the bleeding. In the end his desperation was the final push needed to convince the family to open up the house a Convalescent Hospital so that the patients from the Village Hospital wouldn't have to be sent so far away to recuperate.”

“I'm glad you found him in time, Thomas,” William murmured sincerely. “Truly.”

“See? This is one of the reasons I used to hate you,” Thomas chuckled, rolling his good eye towards his patient who matched his smile with one of his own. “You're far too _nice_ …”

“Not always,” William admitted. “I wasn't particularly nice to the three Germans I killed.”

“You…”

“It was during a patrol,” William wheezed deeply, obviously affected by the memory he was about to share with Thomas. “We came stumbled across them, literally, and it was them or us. I shot one of them. Bayoneted another. And then the last one I drowned in a puddle.”

“William…”

“You were right about the war changing us,” William choked out tearfully. “Love changes us for the better, most of the time, but war? Nothing good can come of the war. Look at us – I shall go to my grave with those three men on my conscience and you will live on, bearing the visible scars of a conflict not of your making and suffering through the invisible ones.”

William had been painfully pragmatic about his prognosis.

His only request had been that his father didn't find out until it was time to say goodbye.

“Thomas, will you be my best man?”

As far as subject changes went this one was practically an about turn, dragging Thomas away from the melancholy that their conversation had drifted into. He sat up straighter in the chair, frowning across at William who actually burst out into weak laughter in response.

“I asked Daisy to marry me this morning,” he explained through his wheezing chuckles. “I want to make sure she's taken care of, war widows pension and all that. Plus…I've loved her for years. This is the last chance I've got to make her see how much she means to me.”

“…out of all the people here you want me to be your best man?”

“Yes.”

It was a simple answer, said without an ounce of hesitation, and it was such a _William_ thing for the dying young man to do. How could Thomas, attempting to make amends for his past behaviour before it was too late, refuse? He sighed deeply, giving his head a rueful shake.

“On your head be it,” he responded. “Yes, William, I will stand as your best man.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” William sighed, smoothing down the fabric of his pyjamas. His father had brought him a set of striped pyjamas which were significantly more comfortable than the hospital Blues which, in truth, had been designed so that men could be easily identified as wounded soldiers by members of the public so as to stop recovering members of the armed forces bring accused of cowardice. Major Clarkson had protested the blatant disregard for the rules but had finally allowed it when Sybil had pointed out that William would never be going anywhere to be seen in his hospital blues. What did it matter what he was wearing? “So…how do you feel about helping me to organise the wedding, then?”

And that was how Thomas found himself taking on an extra set of duties alongside his already busy schedule; convincing Reverend Travis to perform the ceremony in Williams bedroom rather than at the village church, arranging for the bans to be read, finding a suitable wedding ring for Daisy, organising the floral decoration of the room whilst also enlisting Sybil's help to convince His Lordship to donate a bouquet of flowers for Daisy.

The atmosphere below stairs was bittersweet.

It was exactly two weeks since his arrival at the house that Thomas collected the extra pillows he had prepared the evening before and made his way up to William’s room to get him ready for his wedding. There had been a moment during the night when Thomas had feared that the young man wouldn't live long enough for the wedding to go ahead, his breathing becoming so painfully shallow that his chest barely moved beneath the covers.

Setting the pillows within easy reach on the large bed Thomas sat beside his patient and carefully helped him to sit up, cradling William in his arms so that the younger man was resting his entire weight against his chest. Once William was in place Thomas let go of him, reaching out to grab the pillows and layer them one on top of the other behind the groom.

“Ok, there we go,” Thomas murmured, cradling the back of William's neck with his good hand as he gently guided him back towards the pillows. “How does that feel? Not too high?”

“No, they're fine,” William murmured, his face an alarming grey colour. “Thank you.”

He and Sybil had woven vines of flowers around the bedspread the night before whilst Edward had sat and talked to William, wanting to meet the the young man he'd heard so much about during the past couple of weeks. They'd set aside some petals to scatter across the top of the bedsheets so as William caught his breath, a sure sign that he wasn't doing all that well given that he hadn't really done anything, Thomas set about doing just that.

“Thank you,” William repeated, a fraction stronger than before. “For all of this.”

“You're welcome, William.”

“And I'm glad you found someone,” William pressed on, sucking in a painful sounding gasp before coughing one. A large globule of blood landed on his lip, balancing there for a moment before it spilled down his chin. “Thomas, could you…I don't want them to see…”

Thomas nodded, retrieving a crisp entire handkerchief from the bedside cabinet which he used to wipe away all trace of the blood, his heart sinking as William thanked him weakly.

“I'm glad the weddings happening today…” William murmured weakly, smiling sadly up at Thomas who had turned to pick up the younger man's comb. “I don't think I have long…”

Thomas was grateful that the guests began arriving at that particular moment, saving him from responding. Not that he could have formed words at that moment in time, what with the lump in his throat. Instead he focused on making sure that William looked respectable.

Sybil, having arrived with her sister, Edith, and her grandmother, the Dowager Countess, began arranging people around the room as they arrived; Mr Mason was, of course, permitted to stand at the side of his sons bed, his hand resting gently on Williams shoulder. Reverend Travis, who had arrived not long after the family members, took up his position at the side of the bed. Edith and the Dowager Countess were positioned near Mr Mason which left the long wall nearest the door free for the servants to occupy when they arrived.

When he'd first been approached about the wedding Reverend Travis had been hesitant due to the fact that the service couldn't possibly take place in the church as it should do. It had taken almost a day for him to agree to perform a variation of the normal ceremony in William's bedroom, stating that he had prayed for guide nice and had been shown that it was through no fault of his own that William, a boy who had regularly attended his church, could not be moved from his current resting place. Everyone had been incredibly relieved.

Mrs Patmore arrived first, pressing a kiss to Williams’s forehead before moving away. She was followed by Anna and Mr Bates who didn't even glance at Thomas, now standing alongside Sybil behind Reverend Travis. They too moved to greet William, Anna pressing a feather light kiss to his cheek whilst Mr Bates opted for a familiar handshake. Miss O'Brien and Jane, the newest addition to the household staff, arrived next but didn't move to greet William. This wasn't all that surprising; Miss O'Brien would never allow anyone to see her in a vulnerable state, such as becoming emotional, and Jane didn't really know the former footman having been taken on as a Housemaid following Ethel's abrupt departure. It was nice that she had come, however. Mrs Hughes entered next, pressing a tearful kiss to Williams cheek before moving out of the way so that he could watch his bride enter the room on Mr Carson’s arm.

As far as wedding outfits went there was nothing altogether spectacular about Daisy’s outfit, a floral patterned blouse which Thomas knew had been a gift from Lady Edith, a thick plum coloured belt and a plain beige skirt, and yet it was so different to what they were all used to seeing her dressed in that she looking very striking indeed. Even her hair had been done differently, no doubt with Anna's assistance, and the carefully controlled curls made her face look softer than usual as they fell around her face. A single flower finished the look.

“You look wonderful, Daisy,” Mr Mason murmured as Mr Carson delivered her to Williams bedside, the butler nodding to his former employee before moving to stand beside Mrs Hughes. William couldn’t take his eyes off of Daisy. “Here. Come stand beside him, lass.”

Giving his sons shoulder a final squeeze Mr Mason stepped back, allowing Daisy to take his place closest to the bed, and offered them both a broad smile when William reached out to take her hand in his own. Thomas wasn't the only one to notice how badly his hand shook.

“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Travis began, looking at those gathered to witness the wedding. Thomas fought with himself not to look away when the old man's eyes found his, his mind supplying the words of condemnation which many a man of the cloth had laid down upon him throughout the course of his life. Mercifully Travis turned his attention back to Daisy and William, the bride and groom, sparing him further discomfort and proceeded with the age old ceremony, his words firm and reverent. “We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union of Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee; and is commended of St Paul to be honourable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained. First, It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and the praise of his holy Name.”

Thomas wasn't the only one to grimace slightly at this point, thinking of how unfair it was that they wouldn't ever have the chance to raise a family together as they so deserved to.

“Secondly, It was ordained for s remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of contingency might marry, and keep themselves undefined members of Christ’s body,” Travis continued, ignoring the fact that the Dowager Countess had begun dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. Whether her tears were for the joyous occasion or for the sadness doomed to follow Thomas didn't know. “Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

Silence followed his statement, half of the room’s occupant barely daring to breath.

“I require and charge you both, as he will answer at the dreadful day of judgement, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that of either of you know any impediment, why yet my not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, you do now confess it,” Travis pressed on once the moment of silence had passed a suitable length of time. Tilting his head back on the pillow, visibly swallowing down a cough, William offered Daisy a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “For be ye well assured, that so many as are couple together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not judged together by God, neither is their Matrimony lawful.”

Daisy’s smile was more nervous than anything else.

“Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife,” Travis intoned, fixing his gaze upon William who responded by sitting up a fraction straighter against his pillows, making sure to keep hold of Daisy’s hand. Both Sybil and Thomas flinched, forcing themselves to stay where they were and not interfere even though they could clearly see the grimace of pain or discomfort that he was trying to hide. “To live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only into her, so long as he both shall live?”

“I will.”

Reverend Travis turned his attention to Daisy who trembled under his gaze.

“Wilt though have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?” Reverend Travis intoned with more gravitas than before. “Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep the only unto him, so long as he both shall live?”

“I-I will.”

Sadly everyone present in the room knew that the newlyweds would be parted by death far sooner than they deserved. Even Mr Mason, who had been kept in the dark for so long, had now been made aware of his son’s imminent demise and was understandably emotional.

They exchanged their vows under the guidance of Reverend Travis, repeating his words as carefully as they could although William did have to pause halfway through his in order to capture a seemingly uncontrollable cough in his free hand. Thomas was the only one to notice the flecks of blood on his palm when he pulled it away, clenching it as quickly as he could and laying it down on top of the petal strewn comforter, although he suspected everyone noticed the slight pinkness of William's teeth for the remainder of the ceremony.

“Hand me the ring.”

Thomas stepped forwards, the action surprising everyone but William, Mr Mason and Sybil who had been aware of his status of best man, and retrieved the ring from his jacket pocket.

He had approached Mr Mason during his search for the perfect ring for William to give Daisy and, once the older man had gotten them both a remarkably strong cup of tea to drink, Mr Mason had explained that it had been his wife's wish that her wedding ring be passed on to her son so that he could give it to the woman he loved. It was a simple band of gold, worth very little in terms of monetary value but absolutely priceless in terms of sentimental value.

“Thank you, Sergeant Barrow,” Travis murmured as he accepted the ring, placing it on the open pages of the bible he held in his hands. Thomas inclined his head in response before returning to his previous position, watching as Travis held the bible out to William. It took the injured young man a couple of tries to get hold of the ring, his fingers trembling rather alarmingly, but eventually he managed and positioned it over the tip of Daisy’s ring finger on her left hand, waiting for permission to do more. “William, repeat after me. With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship,” William murmured, pausing to choke back another cough with a grimace. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” Travis finished. “Amen.”

Dutifully, William repeated,

“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The Dowager Countess wasn't the only one fighting back tears as William slipped the ring all the way onto Daisy’s finger, his hand dropping down onto the bed once it was done, as both Anna and Mr Carson of all people seemed rather misty eyed. Others, like Miss O'Brien, seemed almost bored whilst Lady Edith, in response to her grandmother’s rather unusual display of emotion, placed a comforting hand on the older woman's trembling shoulder.

This, of course, prompted the Dowager Countess to come back to herself and claim that she was suffering from nothing more than a cold. Sybil chuckled softly at the predictable move.

“Forasmuch as William and Daisy have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witness the same before God and his company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining hands; I now pronounce that they be man and wife together,” Reverend Travis concluded clearly, a minuscule smile gracing his otherwise emotionless face. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. You may now kiss the bride.”

Conscious of everyone watching her Daisy, clutching her bouquet of flowers tightly in her hands, slowly leaned down and pressed a ridiculously chaste kiss to her husband's lips.

And that was that, they were married.

After a round of heartfelt congratulations everyone dispersed, Lady Edith offering to escort Reverend Travis out, until it was just the newlyweds, Mr Mason, Thomas and Sybil left. A sudden and particularly violent bout of coughing had Daisy whimpering and flinching back into the arms of Mr Mason even as Sybil and Thomas flew forwards to support William, helping him to sit up so that he didn't choke on the blood forcing its way out of his body.

Sybil met his gaze as they supported him between them and he found himself nodding minutely in response to the pain filling her expressive eyes; William didn't have long left.

“Mr Mason?” Thomas called out softly. “Would you like to take my place?”

“I…” William's father mumbled, hesitating for a brief moment until he realised what their grave expressions truly meant. This would be the last chance he would have to comfort his son. Daisy whimpered softly, tears falling. “Yes. Yes, I would. Thank you, Sergeant Barrow.”

Working together they managed to get Mr Mason situated so that he could cradle his son in his arms, his back resting against the pillows William had been using, his sons head tilted back against his shoulder. Sybil, armed with a towel she had grabbed from the wash basin, wiped gently at the blood dripping down William's chin just as Thomas had done earlier.

“Thomas?” Daisy gasped when he moved to stand beside her. “Is he…?”

“Not long now, I'm afraid,” Thomas murmured sincerely, genuinely upset by what they were about to witness. “Let me take those flowers. Then you can sit and hold his hand, all right?”

No more than five minutes later a particularly violent bout of coughing brought an end to Williams suffering, his breath stuttering wildly for a moment before stopping altogether.

A moment passed.

Mr Mason choked back a sob, pressing his face into his son’s hair.

Daisy couldn't seem to look away from William's eyes, not even after the presence of life had so obviously left them, until Sybil reached out to gently close them with her fingers.

“I'll let Major Clarkson know so that he can come and…” Sybil murmured as she rose from the bed, placing the blood stained towel aside. Thomas nodded, understanding what she didn't want to say; Major Clarkson needed to sign off on the death certificate before they could organise for the funeral home to collect William's body. “Will you be all right here?”

Thomas nodded.

He felt almost numb inside, a fact which allowed his training and previous experiences dealing with citations similar to this to take over, although he was sure he'd break down at some point. He just hoped that he could hold it together until he was with Edward, the only person he trusted to look after him when he was vulnerable and to put him back together.

“We'll be fine, Sybil,” he murmured. “Could you please inform His Lordship and Mr Carson?”

“Yes, of course.”

Once she was gone, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind her, Thomas was faced with the difficult task of convincing Mr Mason to release the tight hold he had on his sons body, wanting to get William laid out properly before his body began to stiffen. He had seen the corpses left permanently twisted in No-Man's-Land, their bones locking in whatever position they had been in when they'd been killed. He didn't want that for poor William.

“I can't believe he's gone,” Mr Mason gasped pitifully, watching as Thomas gently laid William flat on the bed having removed the extra pillows he'd brought up earlier. It was strange, Thomas thought as he carefully brushed Williams’s hair off of his face, how peaceful the younger man no looked. His bloodstained lips were even turned up into a small smile which would remain with him even after he'd been laid to rest. “My beautiful baby boy…”

Daisy whimpered softly.

“I wish he hadn't asked me to marry him,” she admitted, tears welling in her eyes but for the moment not spilling over onto her cheeks. “I feel like such a fraud. We shouldn't have…”

“You made him happy in his final moments, Daisy,” Thomas murmured, moving across to kneel in front of her. Taking her left hand, complete with it's new addition of a wedding ring, in his gold hand whilst he rested his prosthetic gently on her knee. “That’s all that matters.”

“But I didn’t love him, not like that…”

“Does that really matter now?” he asked her, aware that Mr Mason was watching them from where he was knelt beside his sons body. “You loved him enough to want him to be happy. To be at peace. There’s all kinds of love in this world, Daisy, and there isn’t one that’s stronger than all of the others. They’re all equal in their own way. Please forgive yourself and give me a smile or I shall have to continue spouting this namby pamby nonsense…”

A smile, tinged with an understandable amount of sadness, appeared on her face.

“…I like you much better now, Thomas.”

“Since I lost half my sight, my hand and my good looks, you mean?”

“No,” Daisy muttered, rolling her eyes just as they heard the door handle turning, pre-warning them of Major Clarkson’s arrival before the older man stepped into the room. His expression was one of sorrow. “Since you stopped pretending to be evil.”

Thomas smiled, squeezing her hand gently before getting back to his feet.

“Sergeant Barrow,” Major Clarkson called out softly, taking in the scene. “Would you please take Mr Mason and Miss…Mrs Mason downstairs and get them a cup of tea.”

“Of course, Major Clarkson,” he responded, helping Daisy to her feet in a move which finally caused her tears to spill over, trickling down her rather pale cheeks. “Would you like me to send a couple of orderlies up to help you or should I return myself?”

“If you wouldn’t mind coming back I could use your assistance,” Major Clarkson murmured, placing his hand on Mr Mason’s shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. “Mr Mason, I’m very sorry for your loss. You’ll be able to sit with your son once we’ve finished laying him out properly but I can’t have you here just now.”

Mr Mason hummed softly, leaning down to press a kiss to his son’s forehead.

“I love you, my darling boy,” he murmured, his tears continuing to fall steadily down his cheeks as he forced himself to move away from the bed, his hands lingering on his sons hand for a long moment before he finally severed the connection. “Goodbye…”

~ * ~

 **A/N** One more chapter down; only a couple more to go. Comments & Suggestions welcome. X


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen; England, 1918**

_It funny, how some people can change so completely over time and yet others stay the same throughout their lives, never adapting to the inevitability of change._

_For some this fixed existence isn't so bad, if they weren't so bad to begin with._

_For others this can often lead to a lifetime of pain, sorrow and disappointment._

_Sometimes the change can be so small, so insignificant, that it is missed._

_More often than not it is those changes that make the most difference in the long run._

_Other changes are more obvious._

_Personalities change the most over time, life experiences taking their toll, and it is dependent on those experiences as to whether or not such changes are good._

_Having a child changes people in immeasurable ways, most often for the better although sadly not always. War changes people in countless ways, some obvious, some less so._

_Sometimes these changes are good, such as increased confidence or a surge of bravery resulting in an act of life-saving heroism._

_Mostly these changes are not so good, such as endless paranoia and nightmares._

_A persons work environment can change them, for better or for worse, as can changing a person’s work environment._

_Sometimes it is leaving a job which has been responsible for the negative elements of your personality that gives to you the opportunity you need to change._

_Moving from the country to the city of visa-versa can have a truly remarkable affect._

_And then there's love._

_Love is such a powerful element that it can alter a person’s very soul._

_I used to think I was one of those people who couldn't change, who would never change._

_I was wrong._

_It funny, how some people can change so completely over time and yet others stay the same throughout their lives, never adapting to the inevitability of change._

~ * ~

“ _Thomas_!”

Glancing up from the patients notes he had been consulting prior to changing a dressing on a rather complicated leg injury Thomas had just enough time to move into a more suitable stance to catch the excitable young woman in his arms, dropping the clipboard onto the somewhat gobsmacked patients stomach as he automatically wrapped his arms around her slim waist. She hadn't even bothered to remove her hat and coat, he noticed, and he assumed that it was her bulging suitcase which had been abandoned in the doorway.

“Oh, Thomas, I'm so glad to see you!” Flora chittered excitedly, her hands clutching at his shoulders. “How are you? Your scars look so much better than the last time I saw them!”

A brief frown marred her pretty features before an enormous smile replaced it as she stepped away from him, forcing him to release his hold on her waist, and took hold of his prosthetic limb in both of her hands which, he noticed with a chuckle, were stained purple.

Berry juice, most probably, but when he went to inquire her voice cut him off.

“A prosthetic! Oh, that's so clever! I've got so much to tell you!” Flora’s voice became little more than a squeal as he released his prosthetic, bouncing up and down for a moment before throwing herself into his arms once more. Whether or not she was aware of the stunned expressions surrounding them Thomas honestly couldn't tell although, given that it was _Flora_ , she probably wouldn't have cared even if she had. “You'll _never_ guess what happened on the boat over; we were attacked by a _U-boat_! A U-boat! Can you believe it?”

“Flora! Breathe!” Thomas commanded, laughing. “And perhaps you could let go of me…”

“Oh!” Flora gasped, pulling away from him once more. This time, unfortunately, she put a little too much force behind the move and so when he foot got caught on his boot she tumbled backwards, landing in the lap of the patient Thomas had been seeing too. Rather than appearing upset the patient offered her a broad smile. “Whoops! I'm _so_ sorry! I didn't…”

“Quite alright, Nurse,” Major Travers responded cheerfully. “No harm done.”

And given that his injury was to his left knee that in itself was a minor miracle.

“I'm sorry, Thomas,” Flora sighed deeply as he helped her back to her feet, her hat pin having become dislodged which had caused the item of clothing to slip back into a rather jaunty angle. “I'm making such a mess of this. I’ve just been so excited to see you again!”

Thomas smiled.

He'd never admit it so publicly but he had been counting down the days until her arrival.

“I would have been here last week only I had to go home first to see my parents. They'd received word about the sinking, you see, and unfortunately that meant that a phone call wasn't good enough to reassure my mother that I was alright,” Flora pressed on excitedly, bringing one of her hands up to rub at the side of her nose. “You aren't saying very much.”

“Perhaps that's because you haven't given me a chance to get a word in,” Thomas pointed out, grinning broadly to reassure her that he was only teasing. “It's good to see you again.”

“Oh…” Flora mumbled, her cheeks flushing a bright red colour as her hands began to repetitively unbutton and then re-button her coat at the waist. “Sorry. I didn't mean to…”

“Flora, you wouldn't be you if you didn't rattle on like a steam engine,” he pointed out, his words bringing forth a mock offended cry from the young woman. Thomas was very much aware of the various smiles now being directed towards them. “Now, I must finish seeing to Major Travers so how about you come and find me once you're all settled in? I assume you've already reported in with Major Clarkson in the village before you came up here?”

“Yes, I did,” Flora confirmed, her hands dropping down to her sides leaving the button at her waist undone. He caught sight of Sybil approaching over Flora’s shoulder and smiled at his friend. “I wasn't expecting him to be Scottish; Clarkson isn't exactly a Scottish name, is it?”

“No, it isn't,” he agreed, reaching out to gently turn Flora around so that she was facing Sybil as the pretty young woman reached them. “Flora, this is Nurse Crawley. She might not look it at this particular moment but Sibyl is the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, the owner of Downton Abbey, and she is one of the people responsible for the Convalescent Home being given as much space within the family home as it has. She'll get you settled in.”

“…you're family owns all of _this_?” Flora gasped, flinging her arms out to indicate the building around her and in doing so smacked Thomas in the centre of his chest. He winced, gasping more in protest than in pain, and she responded by offering him an apologetic smile. Her attention quickly returned to Sybil, however, leaving Thomas to shake his head ruefully. He was sure he'd mentioned Sybil in his letters to his friend but it didn't surprise him that she'd forgotten that piece of information. “And if your fathers an _Earl_ what does that make _you_?”

Sybil offered her an indulgent smile.

“I'm a Lady, as are my sisters,” she answered without hesitation, pausing to chuckle brightly before continuing. “Although when I'm in uniform I'm just a Nurse, same as you. Come on.”

"I don't think I've ever met a _Lady_ before,” Flora exclaimed as she allowed herself to be led out of the ward, her eyes going wide as she let out a loud gasp. “…have you met the _King_?”

“When I was presented at Court, yes,” Sybil confirmed softly, chuckling as Flora covered her mouth so as to muffle the excited squeal she couldn't contain. “We've put you in with a couple of the Nurses who've been here since the beginning so that they can help you get…”

For a long moment after the two Nurses had disappeared out the room a stunned silence continued, everyone still reeling from the unusually bubbly scene they'd just witnessed, until it was finally broken by Thomas chuckling to himself as he returned to his earlier task.

“…that your girl, Sergeant Barrow?”

Thomas’ head snapped to the side so that he could meet the smirking gaze of the patient who had spoken from well within his blind spot, his cheeks flushing deeply as he sputtered, trying to figure out a suitable argument against the young Officers statement that wouldn't get him arrested and imprisoned for indecency that would also protect Flora’s reputation.

“No wonder you never felt the need to chase after any of the Nurses here at the hospital.”

“I would appreciate it, Lieutenant Harris, if you wouldn't comment on my private life or make assumptions which may or may not be true,” Thomas responded, his voice tight as he struggled to keep his expression as blank as possible. Edward, he knew, would laugh his head off when he heard about this, not to mention Sybil. “And for you information Nurse Marshall is a merely friend of mine from France who was responsible for saving my life.”

Lieutenant Harris, a “blonde Adonis” who was very much the ladies man that people assumed him to be, shot him a blatant look of disbelief although several of the other patients nodded in acceptance of his explanation. Considering the matter closed, if only for the moment, Thomas returned to his duties and if he completed them as quickly as was physically possible for a man with his handicaps no one said anything although he got the feeling that he and Flora would be the main subject of conversation once he'd left the room.

The rumours about his and Nurse Marshall’s _secret relationship_ spread almost as fast as the rumours about the war being close to its final conclusion, the patients, nurses and orderlies delighting in reporting on every meeting between the two friends and twisting what had taken place to fit with their own conclusions. Only those who truly knew Thomas for what he was dismissed them as nothing more than hearsay although some, such as Sybil, Edward and even young Flora herself found them far more amusing than they should have done. 

“Aren't you worried it'll damage your reputation?” Thomas enquired a couple of weeks after her arrival when their select group was enjoying a makeshift picnic in a secluded spot of the gardens. Even Tom had managed to join them, still dressed in his distinct chauffeur’s livery. “Some of the rumours are quite…explicit…about what we get up to in secret. And don't even get me started about what they say about how we came to know each other in France…”

“They're only rumours,” Flora responded with a careless shrug as she accepted a painfully thin sandwich from Sybil, the food shortages which the country as a whole was suffering having left even a convalescent home struggling to find enough food to feed everyone it needed to. Mrs Patmore, he knew, had been secretly using some of the families own supplies when the military supplies were at their lowest. “Besides, anyone who believes such things without checking the facts first aren't worth worrying about. They'd probably believe the Earth was flat if you told them so. Everyone who needs to believe the truth of the matter does so, including my mother who is looking forward to meeting both of you.”

At first Thomas assumed she was talking about him and Sybil who she had become close to but after looking up from the glass of lemonade he had been handed upon sitting down he discovered that she was in fact referring to himself and Edward who was sat beside him.

“…I beg your pardon?”

“I've told my mother all about you, Thomas,” Flora explained calmly around a mouthful of sandwich, holding her hand up to her mouth for dignities sake. “Admittedly she thought I was sweet on you to begin with but then I explained about your inclinations and…”

Thomas choked loudly.

“You told your mother about…”

“Of course,” Flora continued. Edward reached out, searching out Thomas’ knee and giving it a comforting squeeze. Even Sybil looked stunned by this revelation whilst Tom didn't quite know where to look. “My closest brother, Bertie, shares your inclinations so it's nothing she hasn't heard before. He's in Navy. Served with distinction at the _Battle of Jutland_. She was most impressed to hear about your courageous acts in France. Father was impressed too. He admires the fact that you chose to remain on active service despite your impairment.”

“Your…”

“When I told them about your _close friendship_ with Edward they responded immediately with an open invitation for both of you to visit,” Flora concluded cheerfully. “I think they want to encourage Bertie to find that _special someone_. He's a bit of a scoundrel, you see. No worse than my other brothers were before they married but his affairs would be a bit more scandalous were they to come out, given that father is hoping to become a Bishop one day.”

Thomas wasn't the only one to stare at her in open mouthed shock.

“…your parents…your _religious_ parents don't have a problem with him…with us…with…”

“Of course not,” Flora laughed brightly. “My father has always preached about Gods love and acceptance so why should he do anything less? I know some people use the bible to condemn people with you particular interest and inclinations but my father never has.”

And didn't that explain so much about Flora and her endlessly bubbly personality?

To come from such open and understanding parents?

Thomas didn't even dare to imagine how different his life round have been if his parents hadn't turned on him the way they had when they'd discovered his sexual preferences.

“They'd like to meet you too, Sybil,” Flora announced suddenly, smiling at the other young woman in their party who was taking advantage of the fact that the group could be trusted with her secret and was reclining back against Tom’s chest, her head pillow on his shoulder whilst his arms arms supported her around her waist. “And you as well, Tom, even though your Irish. Mother doesn't like the Irish, you see, but I think that's mainly to do with Mrs O’Keefe who lives opposite them and is forever stealing mother’s prized blooms. She has said she's interested to meet someone who could capture the attention of a Lady, anyway.”

Tom snorted loudly.

“I shall endeavour to improve her views about the Irish when we eventually meet.”

In true Flora fashion the young nurse brought their picnic to an abrupt end when she suddenly remembered she hadn’t posted her most recent letter to her mother and needed to hurry if she was to catch the postman in the village. Tom, ever the gentleman, offered to run her down in the car but she had declined, insisting that he take advantage of the time he could spend with his fiancé before they were missed.

“Is there time for us to take a walk, do you think?” Edward enquired, reaching out to place his hand on Thomas’ arm. “Before you have to get back to being in charge?”

“Technically, I’m always in charge whether I’m working on the wards or not,” Thomas couldn’t help but responded teasingly, causing Sybil to roll her eyes somewhat fondly in his direction. “But, yes, I think we have time for a quick walk.”

Helping Edward to his feet the couple bid farewell to Sybil and Tom who had already tucked their heads together, murmuring to each other, and set off on their walk. They stayed out of sight, allowing them to walk arm in arm like the lovers that they were rather than at a respectable distance such as their act of patient and orderly required.

It was during this walk as they discussed their future that they came across a rather unusual sight, one which Thomas described to Edward in as much detail as possible.

“It’s Lady Edith,” Thomas murmured as he pulled them to a halt behind a carefully manicured hedge, keeping them out of sight. “She’s sat with one of the patients.”

“…is she not allowed to sit with the patients?”

“That’s not what’s so strange,” Thomas explained, linking his fingers with Edwards. “They’re practically pressed together. Her arm is linked with his. I’ve never seen her behave so informally in all the years I worked her, apart from when she was with…”

He trailed off as he suddenly recalled one of the other rumours he’d heard.

“…when she was with who?”

“Patrick Crawley.”

Edward frowned.

“Crawley? As in…?”

“He was the original heir,” Thomas explained softly. “But he perished on the Titanic. Only…there’s a rumour going around that one of the patients is claiming to _be_ him.”

“How?”

“If the rumour that I heard the Hall Boys discussing is to be believed he suffered from amnesia after the sinking and has been living under a false identity in America or Canada,” Thomas reported the facts as he had heard them. “Understandably the family are somewhat dubious. He could be anyone, after all, a fortune hunter or…”

“Or the real Patrick Crawley?”

“Or the real Patrick Crawley,” he conceded with a sigh, repeating his lovers words. “Although I, personally, think it’s a bit _too good to be true_ , if you know what I mean.”

Edward hummed thoughtfully.

“I suppose we shall have to wait and see…”

~ * ~ * ~

It was a few days later as Thomas was finishing up his evening meal that everything changed.

“A German republic?” Mr Carson scoffed loudly, shaking his head in obvious disagreement. “No, I don't think so, Mr Branson. The Kaiser will go, I grant you, and maybe the Crown Prince, too, but there'll be a regency, mark my words. Monarchy is the lifeblood of Europe.”

“Sorry, Mr Carson, but I think you'll find the Kings and Emperors have had their day,” Tom responded confidently, stirring his tea. “If President Wilson has anything to say about it.”

“I'll have to go up to London.”

“But what will you say to her that you haven't said already?”

In the past Thomas would have relished the opportunity to eavesdropping on the two lovebirds but now, his mind practically spinning with thoughts of what the future could hold, he found himself only listening in because they weren’t actually attempting to be discreet.

“I don't know, but I know staying here won't make any difference.”

“You're always going up and down to London these days, Mr Bates.”

“I have business in London.”

“Oh, yes?” O’Brien all but crowed, obviously enjoying the discomfort she was causing for them. “Well, judging by your expression, your business doesn't seem to be prospering.”

Anna fixed the older woman with a surprisingly sharp glare.

“The trick of business is mind your own.”

Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs, heading towards the servants hall, and Thomas turned his head so that he was able to catch sight of who it was with his good eye, expecting to see a flustered orderly looking for him or one of the young Hall Boys looking for Carson.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, but I…”

A great shuffling of chairs and silverware downed out the Earl of Grantham’s deep voice, Thomas automatically rising alongside his former colleagues even though he didn’t have to.

“I've just heard news from the war office and I thought you'd all like to know...” Robert, the Earl of Grantham, paused briefly to create a feeling of suspense. “…that the war is over.”

It felt like the strings holding his body up had been cut, sending him slumping down into his chair even as the people around him began to rejoice loudly, holding each other close as they processed the news that they’d just been given, all of them smiling broadly or laughing.

Thomas wasn’t laughing.

Without even realising it his cheeks were shining with tears streaming from his eyes, his entire body shaking as he brought his good hand up to cover his mouth in an instinctive attempt to muffle the shuddering gasps and weak sobs he was letting out uncontrollably.

“Cease fire will begin at eleven o'clock,” the Earl continued softly, smiling somewhat tearfully around at his loyal servants. “On the morning of the eleventh of November.

“Why can't it begin now?”

“We will mark the moment in the great hall, and I expect all of you, including the kitchen staff and hall boys, everyone, to be there,” Robert continued, shaking the hands which were offered to him before beckoning to Mr Carson. “And Carson...”

“Thomas?”

A hand came down to rest on his shoulder, accompanying the soft voice, and he turned his head to find Tom crouched beside his chair. Behind the Irishman the others were hugging, Mrs Patmore practically crushing poor Daisy as she sobbed noisily into the young woman’s shoulder, but he remained focused on Thomas.

“Thomas, do you need to get some air?”

A clean handkerchief was pressed into his hand, prompting him to automatically wipe the tears from his cheeks. He tried to answer but couldn’t get the words out.

“Thomas?”

No.

He didn’t need air.

He needed…

“Edward…”

Tom nodded in understanding, moving to help Thomas get to his feet when the former footman stumbled as he attempted to rise from his seat, and together the two men slipped out of the servant’s hall and made their way up to the ground floor.

It was complete and utter chaos with patients, nurses and orderlies all weeping together, throwing their arms around each other. Flora moved around the room, eager to hug every single person she came across, while Sybil kept out of the way.

Edward was sat on his bed, his head cradled in his hands as he wept silently.

“Thomas, why don’t you take him up to your room?” Tom offered as they made their way around the edge of the room. “No one will disturb you. Not today. Not now.”

If anyone saw them making their way up to Thomas’ room no one said anything.

~ * ~ * ~

 **A/N** I can’t believe that there’s only one more chapter and the epilogue to go on this story. It seems like I only started it a couple of months ago. LOL. Saying that I have no idea how long it will take me to get that last chapter and the epilogue out to you. X


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Downton Abbey, Crimson Field or any of their characters. I am merely borrowing them for the purpose of this story.

 **Summary:** What might have happened if Thomas made a different choice that night in 1916? How would things have changed for him?

 **Warnings:** Slash, Period Typical Homophobia, Period Typical Violence, Language

**~ There’s A Long, Long Trail ~**

**Chapter Twenty;  
England, 1918**

“Major Collins, would you help Lieutenant Alderney up to the landing, please?”

 _It's like herding sheep,_ Thomas thought to himself as he stood in the centre of the _Main Hall_ organising the household as they gathered to commemorate the much longed for ceasefire.

He and Sybil had quickly realised that, as nice as it would be to have everyone together for the momentous occasion, it simply wasn't possible when you factored in the number of patients residing at the Convalescent Hospital, the Nurses and Orderlies, her family which included the Dowager Countess and the Servants, all of whom were permitted to attend.

As such the able-bodied patients were being sent up onto the landing to create more room in the _Main Hall_ for the members of the family, the servants and the less abled patients.

The Nurses and Orderlies would be scattered throughout to offer aid and comfort.

“Nurse Crawley, could you organise the wheelchair bound patients into a couple of rows?” Thomas requested, pointing his friend across the awkward clump of men.

“That should help us gain back a little bit of space for the household staff. Nurse Marshall? Best keep Captain Hammond down on the ground floor, I think. Perhaps you could find him a chair to sit on?”

“Of course, Sergeant Barrow.”

Edward was already safely in place up on the landing and, when no one else approached him about where they should be, Thomas took a moment to gaze up at the man he loved.

It seemed as though the weight of the world had been lifted from Edward's shoulders.

Someone eventually moved to stand beside him on his blind side but before he could turn to discover their identity an unmistakable voice began singing ever so softly in his ear,

_“The boy you love is up in the gallery,_

_The boy you love is looking now at you,_

_There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief,_

_As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.”_

Thomas couldn't help but chuckle softly as he turned to face Flora, his cheeks heating up ever so slightly as altered lyrics of the popular music hall song caused him to smile broadly.

“Sorry, Thomas,” Flora giggled once they were facing each other. “I couldn't resist.”

“Don't you have some patients you should be helping?” Thomas enquired sharply although his broad smile reassured her that he wasn't really that upset. “Go on. To work with you.”

Giggling happily to herself Flora returned to her duties.

In no time at all every patient was present and accounted for, the servants had emerged from the basement level and were clustered together in the small area Thomas had made sure to leave for them while the family, accompanied by Major Clarkson, took centre stage.

Nodding to himself, satisfied with the outcome of his organisation, Thomas moved towards the stairs, hoping to join Edward on the landing, only to be called back by Major Clarkson.

“Given that you are the overseer of this hospital your place is beside me, I think, Sergeant Barrow,” his superior officer announced calmly for everyone to hear, prompting a murmur of approval from the patients, nurses and orderlies. “Look sharp about it. It's almost time.”

“Yes, Sir.”

A quick glance up at Edward reassured him that his lover didn't mind the unexpected change of plans; in fact it seemed as though he approved of them whole heartedly if the proud smile was anything to go by as he tilted his head to listen to the scene taking place.

He wasn't alone either as Flora had apparently decided to join him on the landing although currently she appeared to be checking on the patients surrounding the blind young officer.

The Earl of Grantham cleared his throat decisively, silencing the room.

“I think that while the clock strikes, we should all make a silent prayer to mark the finish of this terrible war, and what that means for each and every one of us,” he announced, looking around at the people gathered within his ancestral home. “Let us remember the sacrifices that have been made and the men who will never come back, and give them our thanks.”

The beautiful old grandfather clock which Thomas had lovingly maintained for years clunked loudly as the cogs turned over inside of it, warning them all that it was preparing to chime.

Someone took an unsteady breath in the silence which came just before the first chime.

**_Dong!_ **

_“I don't want to die!”_

Thomas flinched, his eyes clenching shit as his mind unexpectedly took him back to the first death he had witnessed as a stretcher bearer back in 1914; a young soldier whose name he had never been able to find out who had been shot in the stomach and had died in his arms.

_“I don't want to die! I want my mum! I don't want to die!”_

**_Dong!_ **

_“Help me!”_

Thomas choked as his mind provided him with one of the images which still haunted his nightmares about France; the day he had watched completely helpless as a soldier tripped and fell off of the slippery boards crossing a patch of mud and drowned in front of them.

_“For Gods sake, please, help me!”_

**_Dong!_ **

_“I think it comes down to luck.”_

Why?

Why was his subconscious doing this to him?

_“If a bullets got your name on it, there's nothing you can do.”_

Clifton’s voice was as clear in his mind as it had been on the day he had died, bringing back an unwelcome flood of memories; shells exploding wildly, bullets striking flesh and metal…

_“If not, you thank God you're alive –”_

Instead of the shot which had killed his friend he heard the clocks next chime. 

**_Dong!_ **

An image filled his mind; a bloodied face he vaguely recognised as the young soldier he and Clifton had been carrying between them when his fellow stretcher bearer had been killed.

_“Get these bodies away!”_

**_Dong!_ **

_“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”_

Thomas opened his eyes, gasping softly as his mind replayed an incident he had almost forgotten about; the day he'd watched a soldier praying to himself as he climbed the ladder to go over the top of their trench and out into No-Mans-Land only to be shot before he could take a step off the top run, his body falling backwards onto his terrified comrades.

_“For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”_

**_Dong!_ **

Opening his eyes Thomas met Sybil's concerned gaze, tears welling up in his eyes as his mind supplied him with yet another memory that he didn't want to relive; the day he was injured.

Or rather, the last moments of three lives.

Jenkins.

_“Shit! That's a Hun, that is!”_

**_Dong!_ **

Davids.

 _“We need to go,”_ Thomas's own voice echoed through his mind. _“Now!”_

_“I'm trying!”_

**_Dong!_ **

_“I think they're dead…”_

The voice playing through his mind as he continued to stare into Sybil's concerned eyes was that of young Peters who had survived but the image torturing him was that of what had been left of Jenkins, Davids and the unlucky soldier they had been carrying back to safety.

_“They're…they're in pieces…and the guy we were carrying hasn't…hasn't got a head…”_

**_Dong!_ **

_“Please…”_

A chill ran down his spine as Sybil's feminine features morphed into those of a pale soldier, gazing up at him from where he lay listlessly between his two comrades inside a shell hole.

It was the soldier he couldn't save.

_“Send help…we've been here for days and we won't last much longer…”_

He could remember searching desperately, barely able to see anything through the smoke and the mud and the blood and his injury, for the three of them and could remember the horrible feeling in his stomach when he'd finally found them only to discover it was too late.

**_Dong!_ **

_“I feel so strange…”_

It took Thomas a moment to place the face he was seeing as the patient who had been in the bed to his left when he'd first woken up in the field hospital in France, forty-year old Private Phillip Armstrong, who hadn't been wounded but had rather died of pneumonia.

The Nurses, including Flora, had done everything they could but sadly it hadn't been enough.

**_Dong!_ **

William.

As the last chime of the clock echoed throughout the silent house all Thomas could see was the moment he and Major Clarkson had finished laying out the younger man's body, blood carefully wipe away and pyjamas changed so that he looked as though he could be sleeping.

It was Major Clarkson who eventually broke through the silence.

“Lord Grantham,” the Scotsman murmured softly. “Would you mind if I said something?”

“Of course not, Major Clarkson. Go ahead.”

“These are not my words,” Clarkson began, pulling out a sheet of paper which had obviously been cut from a newspaper. “But they express what I feel better than I could ever hope to.”

He cleared his throat, lifted the piece of paper so that he could read from it and began,

_“With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,_

_England mourns for her dead across the sea._

_Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,_

_Fallen in the cause of the free._

_Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal_

_Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres._

_There is music in the midst of desolation_

_And a glory that shines upon our tears._

_They went with songs to the battle, they were young,_

_Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow._

_They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,_

_They fell with their faces to the foe._

_They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:_

_Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn._

_At the going down of the sun and in the morning_

_We will remember them._

_They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;_

_They sit no more at familiar tables of home;_

_They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;_

_They sleep beyond England's foam._

_But where our desires are and our hopes profound,_

_Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,_

_To the innermost heart of their own land they are known_

_As the stars are known to the Night;_

_As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,_

_Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,_

_As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,_

_To the end, to the end, they remain.”_

“Thank you, Major Clarkson. You were right, the author of that poem captured our thoughts and feelings perfectly,” the Earl murmured once the other man had finished his rendition, talking over several sniffles and even a couple of gasping whimpers as the poem spoke to all of them. Thomas was holding it together simply because he refused to break down any further than he already had in such a public setting. “And thank you, everyone, for attending this small commemoration of ours and for your loyal service to your King and your country. Remember that this is not just the end of a long war, but it is the dawn of a new age.”

He smiled tearfully around at them all, even looking up to those on the landing.

Thomas, his body still trembling slightly in response to the vivid memories his subconscious had just replayed for him, found himself following his former employer’s example and lifted his gaze up to the men gazing down upon them from the landing, searching out Edward.

His heart clenched painfully within his chest as he realised that Edward was crying silently, gazing sightlessly down towards the Earl of Grantham with tears glistening on his cheeks.

Flora murmured something, patting her hands across her apron and skirt before finally settling on the cuff of her left sleeve from which she pulled out a scrunched up handkerchief which she pressed into Edwards hand, her expression giving away the fact that she was apologising about the state the square of fabric was in, causing Edward to smile tearfully.

Robert cleared his throat, drawing Thomas’s attention back to his former employer.

“God bless you all.”

Everyone present took it as the dismissal it was intended to be, patients returning to their beds or heading to the recreation room or out into the vast gardens to celebrate together.

Despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to head straight to Edwards side Thomas forced himself to perform his duties to the letter, helping the men get settled once more and restoring the usual order to the hospital wards, before he went in search of his lover.

“Thomas!” Sybil called out as he peered into the recreation room, hurrying over to him so that she could murmur softly in his ear. “Edward asked Flora to take him out to your special spot in the gardens. He said he'd wait there until you could join him. Go. I'll cover for you.”

“Thank you.”

They had already celebrated the end of the war together in his bedroom following His Lordships initial announcement, making love as quietly as they could whilst also refusing to rush through the intimate act despite the real danger they were putting themselves in.

It had been a struggle for them to remain quiet throughout, particularly for Thomas who had almost cried out when they had finally become one, but they had managed and so their joyous coupling had gone unnoticed by everyone else, even with the creaking bed-springs.

He ended up passing Flora on his way out to the secluded corner of the gardens, pausing so that she could give him a firm hug to celebrate the cease fire before continuing on his way.

“Thomas?” Edwards’s voice called out as he stepped into the enclosed area. “Is that you?”

“Your hearings getting good,” Thomas chuckled by way of confirmation, crossing to take the other man in his arms, swaying from side to side as they stood locked together. “It's over...”

“It's over...”

“Edward. The war is _over_ …”

“It's _over_...”

Tears flooded down Thomas’s cheeks unhinged as he pressed their lips together in a gentle kiss, his emotions almost overwhelming as his memories began to recede behind his relief.

After four long, painful years the Great War was finally over.

~ * ~

In the days following the Armistice nothing seemed to have changed; the Convalescent Hospital still ran by its strict routine and there were still plenty of tasks to be completed.

Almost a week after the Armistice, the same day that they discovered that Major Gordon, the man claiming to be Patrick Crawley, had discharged himself and left the Hospital in the army hours of the morning leaving only a hastily scribbled apology behind, a large wooden crate with the words ‘OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS’ stamped on all four sides was delivered.

The documents turned out to be forms for the patients and orderlies to complete requesting an official discharge from the British Army, should they desire such a thing.

And so this task was added to the others, Lady Edith latching onto the distraction, and so began to the long process of discovering which men wanted to be discharged straight away (all bar seven men who were career soldiers), figuring out which patients could be left alone to complete the forms for themselves and helping those that for whatever reason couldn't.

Thomas completed Edwards for him, of course, as they sat together in their hidden spot.

He then set about filling out one of those forms for himself.

“Thomas?”

Glancing up from his carefully penned explanation of his injuries Thomas offered something between a grunt and a him to confirm that he was listening to his visually impaired lover.

“Will you help me pen a letter to my mother?” Edward enquired, his expression pensive. “I know it will probably take weeks if not months for our discharges to come through, red tape being what it in the British Army, but I'd like to begin getting things sorted for our future.”

“Yes, of course,” Thomas answered without hesitation. “I think I have some paper…”

He did, folded up in his pocket, although it was a fraction too creased for his liking.

“I'll copy it onto a fresh sheet of paper before I post it,” he murmured, mostly for his own benefit, as he clipped the sheet onto the clipboard he had been using whilst filling in the forms and retrieved his pen from where he had set it aside. “I'm ready when you are.”

 _“Dear Mother,”_ Edward began softly, speaking slowly so that Thomas could keep up, his pen scratching across the page. _“I hope this letter finds you all well. Now that the War has finally come to an end I have begun thinking about the future. I do not think it would be wise for me to return to the Estate. I have improved a great deal and can navigate my way around the hospital and its grounds reasonably well but I fear that the unpredictable changes and dangers of the Estate would be too much for me to handle. I'm not going too fast, am I?”_

“No, you're fine,” Thomas reassured him. “It's my spelling slowing me down, that's all.”

Edward smiled, reaching out blindly to place his hand of Thomas's knee.

“Therefore I was thinking, if it is agreeable with you, that I might make the pied-a-terre in London my permanent residence,” he continued, his thumb stroking over the coarse fabric of Thomas's uniform trousers. “I have already engaged one of the hospital orderlies as my manservant to look after me so I shall be able to live independently on my usual monthly allowance. If this is not agreeable with you I shall make alternative arrangements but I definitely won't be returning to the farm for anything more than a visit. I shall be at the Convalescent Hospital until my discharge so any reply can be sent here. Your Son, Edward.”

Thomas signed his lovers name, set the pen down on the grass beside him and lifted the clipboard up off of his thighs so that he could blow on the ink to ensure that it was dry.

“That didn't sound too…”

“It sounded perfect,” he reassured his lover, leaning over to press a chaste kiss to the younger man's plump lips. “I promise. Although…I didn't know you had an allowance?”

“Oh, yes, enough to live on comfortably if we're careful,” Edward confirmed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in anticipation of another kiss. “It's something that was set up by my Grandfather in his Will so neither my parents nor my brother can alter it or interfere.”

“Huh.”

“Also I stand to inherit half of the family Estate when my father dies,” Edward continued, his voice somewhat detached given the subject. “I imagine that Jack will be more than happy to buy me out, as it were, so I don't envision any financial difficulties for us in the future.”

Thomas had known that Edward came from money but he had assumed, wrongly, that his family would cut him off as soon as they were able to but apparently that wasn't the case.

“I've got a little bit saved up for a rainy day,” he found himself announcing without really knowing why. “Just, you know, six pounds, eight shillings and ninepence in the Post Office.”

“I like the sound of a rainy day fund,” Edward murmured genuinely, smiling softly as he leaned forwards in search of Thomas's lips, blindly stealing an off-centre kiss. “We shall have to make sure to transfer it to our local Post Office branch once we've moved to London.”

A weight that he hadn't even been aware of prior to that very moment was lifted from his shoulders as Thomas listened to his lover speak so seriously and, more importantly, so genuinely about his comparatively pathetic financial situation without a shred of criticism.

“I suppose I should finish filling in this form,” Thomas murmured with a smile, carefully folding the letter and tucking it into his tunic pocket behind his packet of cigarettes before picking up the clipboard containing his half-completed form. “Or else all of our plans will come to nothing when I'm stuck in the Army for longer than I want to be. Now, date of…”

For the next two weeks paperwork flew back and forth between the Convalescent Hospital and the Headquarters of the British Army, during which time news of Mrs Bates sudden and unexpected death reached the house, and then all too soon it was the run up to Christmas.

And with Christmas came the reply the two lovers had been impatiently waiting for.

“Well?” Edward asked as Thomas unfolded the letter. “How did Mother respond?”

 _“Edward, your father and I are in agreement with you regarding your assessment of the situation. As such Jack has been dispatched to London to ensure that the pied-a-terre is in a suitable condition for you to move into once you are officially discharged from the Army,”_ Thomas read the words written on the thin piece of paper whilst also clutching the envelope in his hand as it had something reasonably heavy still sitting inside of it. _“I have enclosed the relevant keys for the flat and have labelled the, for your manservant._ It's signed _Mother.”_

Pressing the letter into Edwards hand Thomas carefully tipped the remaining contents of the envelope out into the palm of his prosthetic hand; there were four keys in total, each with a packing label attached to it, two for the front door, one for the pantry and one for the safe.

Edward stroked his fingertips over the letter he couldn't read for himself, sighing sadly.

“I guess there's really isn't any need for me to return home now…”

All too soon demobilisation paperwork began coming through and patients were being sent home or to a civilian hospital to keep up their treatment, meaning that as well as continuing to run the hospital it was now up to Thomas to start putting the grand house back to rights.

And then came the day that they had been both waiting for and dreading.

“Congratulations, Lieutenant Courtenay,” Major Clarkson murmured sincerely, reaching out shake the younger man's hand. “You are officially no longer a member of the British Army and, given the excellent progress you've made, you may return home as soon as you'd like.”

“Thank you, Major Clarkson,” Edward responded with a small smile, conscious of Thomas standing nearby. “I shall not be returning home, however. My family have agreed that a Country Estate is probably not the best place for someone with my impairment. I have therefore employed a manservant to accompany me to my families _pied-a-terre_ in London.”

“Ah, yes, that sounds most agreeable,” Clarkson grunted. “Well, regarding your transport…”

“Actually I was hoping that you wouldn't mind if I stayed on a couple more days,” Edward interrupted the older man, causing Major Clarkson to frown slightly. “I know this will be rather awkward, given how the hospital is being packed up, but the person I've engaged as my manservant is Sergeant Barrow and we're still waiting for his official demobilisation.”

Major Clarkson glanced across at Thomas who pulled his shoulders back smartly.

“I see,” his Commanding Officer eventually murmured. “Well, as long as the family are agreeable then I have no objections to you staying on a few more days _Mr_ Courtenay.”

“Thank you, Major Clarkson,” Edward responded with a genuine smile. “For everything.”

“You're welcome, Mr Courtenay.”

Thomas stepped forwards at the older man departed, moving to stand respectfully beside his lover who he would be addressing as his employer when in public from that day on.

“That went…better than I had anticipated, given how he reacted the last Tim do requested to stay on past my allocated time,” Edward sighed, his own shoulder slumping with relief as his hands fiddled with the cuffs hiding the scars on his wrists from view. “Although I suppose we shouldn't really celebrate until we've spoken to the family who I shall be imposing on.”

“I'm sure with Nurse Crawley fighting your corner like last time there'll be no problem.”

Thomas could never have imagined the scene they would find upon entering the Drawing Room a couple of minutes later; Sybil and Tom were stood hand in hand facing off against the rest of her family, including the Dowager Countess, and her father’s face appeared to be turning purple with rage as he glared at the young couple who, predictably, glared back.

“You've driven me about,” the Earl of Grantham spat, his heated gaze fixated for the moment on Tom. “Bowing and scraping and seducing my daughter behind my back?!”

No one seemed to have noticed Thomas and Edward’s arrival.

“I don't _bow and scrape_ and I've not _seduced_ her!” Tom all but laughed, although he still managed to sound offended. “Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind.”

“How _dare_ you use that tone! You will leave at once!”

“Papa!”

Edward leaned in to Thomas's side so that he could murmur softly,

“Perhaps we should come back later…”

“This is a folly!” the Earl of Grantham exploded. “A ridiculous, juvenile madness!”

“Sybil,” the Dowager Countess interjected just as Tom spotted the two intruders hovering in the doorway and sent them a look which blatantly pleaded with them to stay, needing the support of someone who approved of their love, prompting Thomas to place his hand on the small of Edwards back to stop him from trying to retreat. “What do you have in mind?”

“Mama, this is hardly…”

“No,” the Dowager Countess interrupted sharply, raising one hand to emphasise her point. “She must have something in mind otherwise they would never have come to us like this.”

“Thank you, Granny,” Sybil murmured, relief weighing heavily in her voice as she turned to face her parents with more confidence. “Yes, we do have a plan. Tom's got a job on a paper. I'll stay for the wedding. I don't want to steal their thunder. But after that I'll go to London.”

“To live with him? Unmarried?”

Her cheeks flushed a rather uncharacteristically deep red colour.

“No,” she murmured, her voice much softer than before. “We shall have to be married…”

Her hand, the one not clutching tightly at Tom's, strayed almost absently to her stomach.

No.

It couldn't be…

“… _have_ to be?”

Tom's eyes were blown completely wide as he started down into those of the woman he loved, barely even hearing the Earl of Grantham's spluttering of Lady Cora's quiet plea,

“Sybil, darling, what are you saying?”

A brilliant smile transformed Sybil's face of one of radiant beauty.

“I'm pregnant.”

“ _What_?!?”

Several voices had cried out as one but Thomas suspected that the couple hadn't even noticed, too focused on each other, although Edward's gasp had finally alerted the rest of the rooms occupants to the fact that they were stood just inside the partially open door.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Lady Mary demanded sharply. “This is a private family matter.”

“I can only apologise, Lady Mary,” Edward murmured. “I asked Sergeant Barrow to bring me here to speak to Lord Grantham on a different matter. It wasn't my intention to intrude.”

“…you're pregnant?” Lady Cora, focused on the more important subject, repeated softly as she stepped forwards to place her own hand atop the one on Sybil's stomach. “Oh, Sybil…”

“Perhaps we should go…” Thomas suggested softly. “Lieutenant Courtenay?”

“No, stay, Thomas,” Tom called out, finally looking away from his fiancé. “Please.”

“Yes, Thomas,” Sybil agreed, turning to offer them an almost tearful smile even as her mother continued to press her hand against her stomach. “Please, stay. Both of you.”

“Sybil, how could you do this to yourself? To your family?”

Stepping away from her fiancé and her mother Sybil turned to face her father.

“Have you thought of what people will say?” he implored her softly, his eyes filled with sadness. “Marrying beneath you is bad enough but a quick marriage followed by a child?”

“Papa, you can’t honestly think that I care about any of that,” Sybil sighed deeply, her voice filled with an equal amount of sadness as her fathers eyes. “I love Tom. I have loved him since…since I realised what love is. Is it reckless? Unconventional? Yes. It is. Does that mean I’ll stop loving him? No. Because that’s not how love works. I _love_ Tom Branson. I’m having his child. And I am going to _marry_ Tom Branson whether I have your approval or not, Papa.”

“Sybil…”

Tom squeezed her hand, offering her the comfort and support she needed.

“Papa, I am not the same young girl I once was,” Sybil continued, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I have a career I can pursue if need be. I shall have a husband I know I can rely on. I would love to have my families support as well but I shall manage fine without it.”

“Of course you shall have our support,” Cora interjected quickly. “Won’t she, Robert?”

Glancing around the room Thomas found that every single member of the Crawley family wore a different expression on their face; Lady Cora had adopted a look of fierce determination as she glared across at her husband who’s expression remained one of disapproval and anger, Lady Mary appeared wary of either the current situation or the future whilst Lady Edith was obviously attempting to hide her envy behind a mask of indifference, Captain Crawley was obviously pleased for the couple whilst his fiancé, Lavinia, seemed understandably confused where she sat beside him in the corner of the room and lastly but by no means least the Dowager Countess looked of all things incredibly proud.

“Fine, you can marry him,” the Earl of Grantham finally announced after a long, tense moment. “But on your own head be it. Don’t come crying to me when it all goes wrong.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Sybil murmured. “And it won’t go wrong. You’ll see.”

“Lieutenant Courtenay,” Lady Cora suddenly turned her attention on the couple stood by the door now that the drama regarding her daughter had been semi-resolved, stepping aside so that Tom could hug his fiancé. “What was it that you wished to speak to us about?”

“My discharge from the army has come through…”

“Ah, so you’ll be leavings then?”

“Actually _that_ is the matter I would like to speak to you about,” Edward explained, his voice adopting the same well educated tone that the Crawleys used. “I have engaged Sergeant Barrow here to act as my manservant, to be my eyes as it were, as I shall not be returning home but rather setting myself up in my families flat in London. I was therefore wondering if I could impose on you for a short while later until his official discharge comes through?”

His request, or perhaps it was his decision to hire Thomas, seemed to surprise them all.

Well, all bar Sybil and Tom who knew the truth.

“Of course you can stay a while longer, Lieutenant Courtenay.”

“Which is perfect, actually,” Sybil spoke up brightly, surprising everyone. “Because I’d like for you both to be at our wedding. In fact, Thomas? Would you stand as Tom’s best man?”

It took a little longer than it probably should have done for her words to register with him.

“I’m flattered, truly, but…wouldn’t you want one of your brothers to stand for you?” 

“Kieran and I have never been close,” Tom answered, a tinge of regret bleeding into his voice. “And the others would never be able to get here in time, not with their jobs and sailing across the England. No, Sybil and I have talked about it and we’d like you to do it.”

None of the Crawleys seemed to know how to react to this latest development.

“Then…then I would be honoured to,” he responded softly, shaking the hand hitch Tom offered to him before turning to face a beaming Edward. “Shall I take you back now, sir?”

“Yes, please, Sergeant Barrow,” Edward murmured, turning his smile towards where Sybil and Tom had returned to each other’s sides. “Congratulation. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

~ * ~

The morning of Sybil and Tom’s wedding, arranged as quickly as possible by the various members of her family as it was becoming difficult for the bride to lace up her corset even though it was a boneless design, Major Clarkson arrived unexpectedly at the Convalescent Hospital to deliver the envelope containing Thomas’s official discharge papers personally.

“I was uncertain of what to expect when I was informed that you would be joining my staff, _Mr_ Barrow, but I am pleased to say you have exceeded all of my expectations,” he announced as Thomas re-read the letter commending him for his service but freeing him to return to his civilian life. “You have changed a great deal these past four years, for the better I might add although I wish it hadn’t cost you so much physical and mental pain.”

Thomas blinked at the older man in surprise.

“You are a credit to your uniform and I find myself hoping that the future will bring you the happiness you have more than earned, no matter what my personal feeling regarding your _predilections_ may be,” Major Clarkson continued, smirking as Thomas blanched slightly. “You don’t think I’m oblivious to the things happening right beneath my nose, do you?”

“No, sir,” Thomas mumbled. “I just…”

“I wish you a long and happy life, Mr Barrow,” Clarkson concluded, offering his hand and squeezing Thomas’s tightly when the other man automatically shook it. “You may leave as soon as you’re ready. I shall oversee the closure of the Convalescent Hospital from now on.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas murmured, surprising himself by how genuine his feeling behind the words were. “It was…it was an honour serving under you and I wish you all the best.”

Because of the short notice of his _change of status_ Thomas decided that it would be easier to stick to his original plan for the day and attend the wedding in his uniform, Flora having cleaned and pressed it for him the night before, and so he pinned his medal in place, collected Edward who had ordered a suit from Ripon for the big day and looked rather dashing with his brown curls ruffling in the breeze and made his way to the village church.

Reverend Travis had taken even more convincing to officiate the wedding of Sybil and Tom than he had the wedding of William and Daisy, primarily because of Tom’s faith despite the fact that the Irishman had already agreed to an Anglican ceremony to please his fiancé and her family but mostly because of the hurried nature and the reasons behind it, but a few well-placed threats from the Dowager Countess, once again, had finally sorted things out.

After seeing Edward to his seat Thomas took his place beside the anxious looking groom who had been dressed in one of Matthew’s old suits gifted to him for the special occasion.

“You know what,” Tom admitted softly. “I still can’t believe this is happening.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet…”

“Never,” Tom countered firmly. “A part of me just wishes this wasn’t so rushed.”

“You’re the one that put the cart before the horse, so to speak,” Thomas muttered teasingly just as the organ music changed from a pleasant instrumental to the unmistakable wedding march as Sybil appeared. “Oh, Sybil, you naughty girl…”

“What?” Tom asked in a mixture of frustration and concern, wedding tradition stopping him from turning around to gaze at his bride as Thomas was. “What is it?”

“Her choice of outfit is, well, very Sybil,” Thomas answered, smiling at the young woman making her way along with aisle on her father’s arm who beamed back at him. “It’s just not particularly what you’d expect a _blushing young bride_ to wear.”

When tasked with finding something to wear on her wedding day Sybil had opted for one of her pre-war gowns, scratching off the “ _something old_ ” part of the rhyme, and had selected the dress, or rather outfit, which had the most connection to her fiancé.

Her blue _Paul Poiret_ inspired “ _harem pants_ ” which she had only dared to order because of the conversation she had had with Tom on her way to the dressmakers.

This also, seamlessly, dealt with the “ _something blue_ ” portion of the rhyme.

Quite predictably her parents had been horrified until she’d pointed out that the cut of the outfit with its tight bodice and draping layers of fabric would conceal her growing bump far better than any of her other significantly tighter gowns or dresses.

She wore the beaded bandeau across her forehead instead of a traditional veil.

Her necklace belonged to Mary, dealing with the “ _something borrowed_ ” line, whilst the stylish shoes and gloves she wore were new; a gift from the Dowager Countess.

“It’s very Sybil, however.”

Tom’s eyes lit up when he was finally able to see his fiancé, a chuckle escaping his lips just before Reverend Travis began the ceremony as he looked her up and down.

As far as weddings went the actual service was unremarkable yet perfect; they made their chosen vows, exchanged their rings and exited the church as husband and wife.

The following day Thomas and Edward left for their new lives in London.

**~ THE END ~**

**A/N** Ta Da! There will be an Epilogue as I’ve planned their entire lives out for this story and want the rest of you to know how happy they were. Don’t know how long it will take to complete, of course, given the amount of stories I’ve currently got on the go. Hope you’ve enjoyed this tale. X  


	21. Appendix

**A/N** I had intended to write this as a chapter but quickly realised it would be _ridiculously_ long and, as much fun as that would be, I simply don’t have the time. And so, instead, I give you my plan with a few more details added in. Enjoy! X

**Appendix;**

**A chronology of the lives of Thomas Barrow, Edward Courtenay and their friends Sybil Branson, Tom Branson and Flora Marshall.**

 

**1919**

  * **March**
  * Aoife Branson, named after Tom’s grandmother, born



**1920**

  * **January**
  * Matthew and Mary’s engagement is announced
  * **March**
  * Matthew and Mary's wedding
  * **May**
  * Edith is left at the alter by Sir Anthony Strallen
  * Tom encourages Edith to pursue her own career in journalism
  * **June**
  * Violet Branson, name after Sybil's grandmother, born
  * Tom found work as a journalist, prompting the family to move to London
  * Thomas and Sybil begin meeting for afternoon tea once a week



**1921**

  * **September**
  * George Crawley born
  * Matthew dies in an automobile accident



**1923**

  * **January**
  * Marigold, the illegitimate child of Edith and Michael Gregson, born
  * **February**
  * Robert “Bobby” Branson, named after Sybil’s father, born



**1924**

  * **August**
  * Flora marries Charles Huntington, a Vicar in a neighbouring village
  * Thomas and Edward attended the wedding as her “guests of honour”



**1925**

  * **April**
  * Eilis Branson, named after Tom’s mother, born
  * **August**
  * Mary marries Henry Talbot, a racing car driver
  * **September**
  * Victoria Rachel Cora Aldridge, daughter of Rose and Atticus, born
  * **December**
  * Edith marries Herbert Pelham, the 7th Marquess of Hexham



**1926**

  * Marianne Talbot born



**1928**

  * **January**
  * Thomas “Tommy” and Edward “Eddie” Branson, named after Thomas and Edward who helped Sybil through the unexpected home birth after she went into premature labour and the ambulance couldn't get to her in time due to the snow, born
  * **June**
  * Richard Huntington born
  * **October**
  * Archibald “Archie” Pelham born



**1930**

  * **November**
  * Eloise Huntington born
  * Violet, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, passes away (aged 88)
  * Thomas and Edward attend the funeral



**1931**

  * **May**
  * Helene Pelham born



**1934**

  * **September**
  * Edmund Huntington born



**1939**

  * **September**
  * Second World War declared
  * Sybil and Tom evacuate their younger children to Downton Abbey
  * **November**
  * Arthur Huntington born



**1940**

  * **November**
  * Thomas and Edward wanted to remain in the London but were driven out by the Blitz when it became apparent that a half-blind man couldn't convey a completely blind man to the nearest shelter quickly enough and so, after writing to Edwards brother, they moved to his family’s farm (only visited annually at Christmas before then, Edward's parents slowly getting used to his disability and his brother easing off once he was sure his livelihood wasn't “threatened”)
  * Aoife joins the ATS (“Auxiliary Territorial Service”)



**1941**

  * **February**
  * Sybil and Tom's house bombed to smithereens
  * Thomas and Edward insist that they move into their apartment
  * **April**
  * Thomas is talked into joining the local Home Guard as a medic
  * Sybil is wounded whilst volunteering with the WVS (manning the “tea wagon”) during a particularly bad bombing raid and ends up in hospital



**1942**

  * **March**
  * Violet joins the WRNS (“Women’s Royal Naval Service”)
  * **April**
  * George joins the British Army
  * **August**
  * Marigold joins the WAAF (“Women’s Auxiliary Air Force”)
  * Bobby joins the Royal Navy



**1943**

  * **April**
  * Bobby’s ship ( _HMS Beverley_ – formerly _USS Branch_ ) is reported as being sunk during the “Battle of the Atlantic” and he is listed as being “Missing, Presumed Dead”
  * Sybil is heartbroken but struggles on
  * **July**
  * Tom is buried alive whilst trying to help someone who had already been trapped during a bombing raid (they are both rescued but it leaves him a changed man)



**1944**

  * **June**
  * George is wounded whilst storming Sword Beach on D-Day



**1945**

  * **April**
  * Eilis joins the ATS
  * **May**
  * Victory in Europe
  * **August**
  * Victory in the Pacific
  * **September**
  * Sybil and Tom, with Roberts invitation, return to live at Downton Abbey
  * Thomas and Edward return to their flat in London



**1946**

  * **February**
  * Aoife marries Michael Robertson-Smyth, a former British Army Officer
  * **April**
  * Robert Crawley, the 7th Earl of Grantham, passes away (aged 80)
  * George Crawley becomes the 8th Earl of Grantham



**1948**

  * **June**
  * Violet marries Victor Mayhew, a former RAF Spitfire Pilot
  * **September**
  * George, much everyone's surprise, marries his cousin Eilis



**1949**

  * **April**
  * Marigold marries Ernest Anderson, a journalist who works with her mother
  * Cora, Countess of Grantham, passes away (aged 81)



**1950**

  * **January**
  * Richard, a teacher, marries Lucille Dubois, a telephone exchange worker



**1954**

  * **March**
  * Archie marries Lady Penelope Ryder, daughter of the Earl of Tilney



**1958**

  * **May**
  * Tom passes away unexpectedly from a suspected heart attack (aged 63)
  * Sybil is, once again, heartbroken
  * Thomas and Edward return to Downton for the funeral
  * **October**
  * Tommy, a policeman, marries his “honorary cousin” Eloise



**1960**

  * **July**
  * Marianne, “the spinster”, marries Sir Hallam Welsh, the Earl of Rutherford
  * **August**
  * Helen, a nurse, marries Andrew Gates, a wealthy American businessman



**1962**

  * **March**
  * Arthur, an author, marries Fiona Collins, a farmer’s daughter



**1967**

  * **August**
  * Thomas, aged 78, and Edward, aged 74, start living more openly after the _Sexual Offences Act_ decriminalised homosexual acts between two men over 21 years of age in private in England and Wales
  * Eddie admits to them that he is homosexual and they become his confidantes



**1968**

  * **October**
  * Edmund, Manager of the Rutherford Estate, marries Kitty Granger, a teacher



**1972**

  * **July**
  * Thomas and Edward attend the first UK Gay Rights Rally and quickly became well known amongst the “Gay Community”, sharing their story with anyone interested in the two veterans (their medals, which they wore to every rally/march they ever attended, always drew a lot of attention – particularly Thomas's Victoria Cross)



**1975**

  * **June**
  * Edith's paper/magazine published an article about them/their lives



**1987**

  * **November**
  * Edward passes away in his sleep following the Remembrance Parade (aged 94)
  * Thomas followed him less than a week later (aged 98)



 

 **A/N** So there you have it, the lives of Thomas Barrow and Edward Courtenay as they should have and could have been. Hope you’ve enjoyed it. I know I certainly have. X  


End file.
